A Trial Gone Wrong
by FionaTailynn
Summary: Against all odds, Sherlock survived the fall and has returned to John after three years. But that isn't the end of it, for Sherlock is held responsible for each and every one of Moriarty's crimes. And when the trial ends, the consulting detective is found guilty. How will he ever get himself out of prison? And even if he manages to escape, what then?
1. A Hopefully Not Too Problematic Return

_**Author's Note:**_

_**Hello, dear reader! Before anything I need to thank my awesome mum, who edited this whole thing for me (even if it took a while) so thanks so much :D If you actually read this entire thing through I would be eternally grateful if you left a review or something as I do consider this story my "masterpiece" if you like. Why would I say that? Well, it is my longest fiction, the one I worked the hardest on yet and the one I thought through the most. I based it on one simple idea: What if the problem with Sherlock's return wasn't his reunion with John? What if it was something else? Enjoy! :D**_

"Ow!" Sherlock yelled while holding his right cheek and sitting on the floor of 221B Baker Street. John lowered his hand and took a step closer. He looked down at him furiously.

"That's for leaving me for three years", John said. He then quickly pulled Sherlock up and hugged him tightly.

"And that's for coming back." They both hugged for several seconds, or could it have been minutes or hours? Anyways, at some point they released themselves from each other and both sighed happily.

"I missed you," Sherlock said.

"So did I," John replied and then they simultaneously started laughing.

_One Week Later_

Lestrade slowly rocked on his heels nervously as he stood in front of the many journalists who were sitting in front of him. He leaned over the podium with the microphone.

"Now, I've told you that this press conference is about newly found information on the cold case: Sherlock Holmes. Well..." he took a deep breath, "Sherlock Holmes is, in fact, alive." The journalists stared at him, as if they were rethinking what he'd just said and checking if they'd actually missed the punch line.

Lestrade cleared his throat as he realized that they obviously didn't buy it.

"Right..." he turned around a little, "And here he is:"

The curtain behind him opened slightly and out stepped none other than Mister Sherlock Holmes himself.

There was a beat.

Suddenly all the journalists stood up, raising their arms, all asking questions at the same time, every single one of them desperately wanting to note down what the former consulting detective had to say first.

Instead of an inspiring, long speech all they got was: "Ah, dull."

_One Day Later_

FAKE DETECTIVE RESURRECTED! COURT CASE TO FOLLOW.

Sherlock Holmes, a thirty-four-year-old man from London, made headlines a little over three years ago for having recovered Turner's painting "The Reichenbach Falls", and was known previously due to his partner in crime's blog, .uk, for his remarkable skills at crime solving. Later that year, he was proven a fraud as he actually invented all the crimes he'd then solved. After this had been brought to light, the 'consulting detective' as he called himself, committed suicide -

Or so we thought untiljust yesterday he revealed himself to in fact be alive. The way he mastered this trick is yet to be found out. Other than "dull," Holmes refused to comment. It is still unclear what his punishment will be, as there have been scarcely anyfake death cases and none of them have been under such circumstances. More on page four.

John pursed his lips as he put the newspaper back onto the coffee table. He leaned back in his armchair in deep thought. Just then Sherlock walked in from the kitchen holding his violin in his left hand, and his bow in his right. He strolled up to the window and gracefully placed it under his chin. He then tuned it and proceeded to play Beethoven's 5th symphony. John listened to the melodic strokes for a couple minutes to try to distract himself. As that didn't work, he thought he should talk about the article to Sherlock, though he hated to interrupt him while he was playing.

"Have you seen the article?"

"You were wrong, you know?" Sherlock said, without answering John's question as he continued to play.

"What?" John asked, confused.

"You said that everyone gets one tabloid big-bang, it would seem I'm getting a second."

"You're the exception to most things, Sherlock." Sherlock's eyes flashed back at him for a second, but he then continued to stare out the window.

"About that," John leaned forward, "aren't you worried?"

Sherlock stopped playing with a screech. He turned around while lowering the violin.

"Worried about what?"

"The court case, you're still a fraud, remember?" Sherlock almost seemed to calm down at that.

"Oh, no I'm not."

"Not even a little?"

"By the question I assume you are." Sherlock was already repositioning his violin.

"Well... Yes."

"There's really no need, John."

"Fine, but just once, lay low. This'll probably be the most important case in your life."

"Of course, I promise." Sherlock said semi-absently and resumed his piece. John rolled his eyes as he realized that this discussion probably didn't actually help much in this situation. He knew it wasn't a good idea but he couldn't help but think about what would happened in the event that Sherlock was found guilty.

What he didn't know was that Sherlock was actually planning to get as little attention as possible while in court. He was just a little afraid of the whole thing-_a little_.

_6 weeks later_

"The court is officially open."

Neither Sherlock nor John listened to the entire explanation of why he'd been accused, as both of them knew that far too well. They just stared in opposite directions and tried not to find any reason why this entire thing would go wrong.

"The prosecution calls in the defendant."

Sherlock's head snapped up and he stood up and steadily made his way to the podium. A man brought a bible to him and Sherlock placed his right hand on it while raising the other.

"I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and only the truth."

The prosecutor got closer to him, and after one look he already could tell half of his life story, and Sherlock didn't like it. This was an aggressive man, who fought more for what he wanted than for what was right. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him when the man gave him a seemingly innocent smile.

"What exactly is the name you give to your profession, Mister Holmes?"

"Consulting Detective."

"And what does that mean exactly?"

"When the police have a mystery even they can't crack, they go to me for help."

"Is it right that you don't do it for money?"

"Yes, it is."

"So do you get _anything_ in return for your... good deeds, shall we say?"

"No, well except recognition maybe..."

"Recognition, I see... Do you enjoy recognition?"

"No, not at all actually."

"Why not?"

"Because most people are st-," he broke off just in time, then re-thought his sentence, "Because most people don't actually care for longer than a couple days."

"Why do you think that?"

"Well I managed to fake my death and you got an entire jury together that had no idea. Couldn't have held on that long then." The entire room let out a quiet giggle.

"Aha... Very funny... About that, how did you do it, exactly?"

"Objection!" Sherlock's defender whose name he hadn't bothered to remember called out, "That question is completely off subject!"

"Seconded," the judge said.

"Okay then, why did you do it? Did you need to flee from the fact that you were already seen as a fraud?"

"No, I needed to take down Moriarty's network piece by piece."

"Moriarty actually being Richard Brook."

"Wrong, Richard Brook never existed."

"And how can you possibly argue that when there clearly is a file with the name Richard Brook on it."

"Moriarty was a genius, he could change any record in the world he wanted without having to move a finger."

"And how exactly could he do that?"

"He had a network; one that controlled half of all the crime in the world. Taking it down was what took me those three years."

"Are you claiming one man took down a global network all by himself?"

"Don't be absurd. I had some help."

"From whom, may I ask?"

"Those people would rather stay anonymous."

"Very well then... Why exactly do the police go to you?"

"Because of my observation and deduction skills."

"Care to enlighten us a little on how that works?"

"I observe and from that I deduce, it's all on the website," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes a tiny bit.

"And you just happen to find out all the information you need?"

"I don't happen to. Any of you could do it as well if you tried a little harder than you do."

"That is a very strong assumption."

"Any more questions?"

"No."

_2 weeks later_

Not one deduction had slipped from Sherlock's lips during the entire trial. He'd just answered the question they'd asked him and tried to pay as much attention as possible to all the other witnesses (mostly police officers and clients).

"The prosecution calls in Dr. John Watson as witness." John looked at Sherlock, who nodded at him, and got up. He slowly walked to the podium, taking as large steps as possible. John swallowed as he raised his arm and placed his other hand over the bible which felt odd, as he'd decided years before he was an atheist.

"I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and only the truth."

The defence walked over to him, and John disliked him immediately. He just simply looked despicable to him.

"How long have you known Sherlock Holmes?"

John's eyes flashed over to Sherlock and cracked a tiny hint of a smile at the mistake in that question, still he answered it 'the way they wanted him to answer': "Four years and nine months."

"And how did you meet?"

"I had just been sent back to London from Afghanistan after I had been shot. I then ran into an old colleague and when I mentioned to him that I was looking for a place to stay he said he knew of someone with a similar problem. I that day made acquaintanceship with Sherlock Holmes."

"Is it correct that you moved in a day after you met him?"

"Yes."

"Seems a little rushed, don't you think?"

"You're entitled to that opinion." The man raised his eyebrows at the slight bitterness in John's voice.

"What made you decide to move in so quickly?" John thought a little.

"He cured my limp."

"Your limp?"

"When I returned from Afghanistan, the wound had already healed but it had left me with a limp."

"And how exactly did he cure it?"

"Well, it was psychosomatic, I didn't know that at the time. He made me realize it though."

"Are you trying to say that Sherlock Holmes, a man without any diploma in medicine or psychology, cured your limp better than the therapist you had before? That's pretty hard to believe."

"You should, though!"

"All right, let's move on."

"Good idea..." John said clearly getting annoyed at this man.

"Has Mister Holmes ever lied to you?"

That question hit John harder than he thought it would. He pondered it a while, wondering what to answer.

"...Yes, yes he has."

"About what?"

"He told me he was a fraud." John noticed his mistake one second too late.

"Are you saying that he's openly confessed to these crimes?"

"No! I told you he was lying!" John yelled a little louder than was necessary.

"Why would he lie about that?"

"It was to protect his friends, for God's sake!"

"In what way?"

"He... He was being threatened."

"By whom?"

"James Moriarty."

"A man proven not to exist."

"Richard Brook is a man invented by him!" John said, really losing his patience with this man.

"Richard Brook", the man stated calmly, "has a record, as opposed to this 'Moriarty'."

"He broke into the records! He was a genius!"

"As you claim Sherlock Holmes to be?"

"Yes, except bad."

"Isn't it more likely that there are no geniuses, than that there are, or better said, were, two?"

"You're not honestly asking me that, right?"

"Answer the question."

He breathed in. "Yes, I suppose so..."

"No further questions."


	2. Trial Gone Wrong

_**Trial Gone Wrong**_

_One Week Later_

Even after John had been called in and despite the fact that every single witness who had worked at Scotland Yard, except for Lestrade, seemed to be pretty sure of the fact that he was a fake, Sherlock was still confident that this was all going pretty well. Anyway, all he could do now was hope, as the jury was now deciding.

He sat on the bench, nervously fumbling his fingers. They'd already been in there for hours. John came back from his quick walk outside and sat beside him.

"You all right?"

"Yeah..."

"How long have they been in there?" John said looking back at the closed door.

"Four hours and twenty-eight minutes, I believe."

"This is ridiculous. They should just find you not guilty, the prosecution doesn't have any proof."

"But neither does the defence."

"Sherlock, don't go that way."

"I'm not. I'm just stating the facts. That doesn't mean I think they'll win. It would be absurd."

John nodded and they both sat there in silence for a good half hour, then finally someone opened the door. John and Sherlock turned around simultaneously and looked at him.

"The jury has made their decision."

Five minutes later the court was full again and Sherlock was back on the podium. Somehow he managed not to let out any deductions as his eyes flashed around the room. The judge got the room to fall silent and everyone looked at the jury representative.

"After having listened to the entire process we have come to making a hard, but fair decision. We have found Sherlock Holmes,"

It seemed as if the entire room leaned forward to hear what the answer was. In that time one could've heard a pin drop as the 'actual' trial of the century as some journalists called it was about to end.

"...Guilty."

_What?!_

"And what have you decided would be the punishment?"

"We have decided that the only fair punishment, for the organization of a minimum of fifty-six murders, and damage of an estimated thirty million pounds, including the theft of 'The Reichenbach Falls'-"

"No! I recovered it! That's all!"

"You will cease interrupting!" the judge commanded. Sherlock closed his mouth for the first time ever after having been told to.

"Please continue."

"Thank you Your Honour, -as well as the faking of his own death, is a lifetime imprisonment."

"Objection!" The entire courtroom turned their heads to where that scream had come from. John stood up.

"Your Honour, this is ridiculous!"

"The jury has spoken", the judge took the hammer and knocked it down. John remained unimpressed.

"But Your Honour-"

"I would be quiet if I were you, Dr. Watson. You've already caused enough trouble." John sat down and looked around seeming lost and immediately the room started emptying itself.

Sherlock was numb everywhere. It wasn't true. It couldn't be true. He was innocent! John knew that. Sherlock knew that. But no one else seemed to. He didn't even notice the cuffs being put on his hands; only when someone suddenly pushed him forwards and he nearly tripped down the step did he really grasp what was happening.

_No, no, no. This wasn't meant to happen, it wasn't supposed to go this way. Everything was supposed to go back to normal!_

"Where are you taking me?" he asked one of the five guards who were walking him out the room.

"Pentonville", he snorted. Sherlock stared at him in shock for a couple seconds then resumed walking while staring at the ground. It took quite a while to exit the room as everyone was trying to leave it as fast as possible all at once. Just as they were getting to the door, Sherlock felt someone grab hold of his arm. He looked up in that direction, and at first could only see an arm holding his as the rest of the person holding him was blocked off by the guards.

"Let me through to him!" a familiar voice called out. A guard rolled his eyes and stepped out of the way.

"Thirty seconds!"

John pulled himself to Sherlock and brought his face right up to Sherlock's.

"Don't worry, we can figure this out. I'll get you out of there." Sherlock looked at him for a couple seconds.

"Figure out what? It's done." John stared at him until the guard cut them off:

"All right, chit-chat's over! Keep moving!" A guard pushed Sherlock ahead. They brought him all the way to police car that was waiting outside and the guard who was in front of him the whole time opened the door. Sherlock looked back and noticed that John had followed him the entire time but had just stayed back a little bit.

"Goodbye, John", he mouthed and the guard pushed his head into the car.

_Four Hours Later_

He had been registered, forced to change into a dull grey tracksuit-like one-piece outfit, given a bracelet that was implanted with a traceable security-chip and couldn't be taken off, and now another guard was leading Sherlock through the many halls of Pentonville Prison to his cell. After a five-minute walk, the guard stopped at door 221, swiped a card through the small slot, and placed his thumb on a small screen. The door unlocked and he turned the knob and opened it.

"Get in." Sherlock obeyed and he looked around his new home for the rest of eternity.

It was a small 12-by-10-foot room, with a bed, a toilet, a sink, a desk with a radio and some magazines on it, one wooden chair and a two-drawer nightstand on which a plastic alarm clock was placed. It wasn't even comparable with the comfort of 221B Baker Street but the fact that by chance he'd got cell number 221 comforted him a little.

"Breakfast is at eight tomorrow. Don't be late." And with that, the door closed and locked behind him. Sherlock let himself fall onto the bed and closed his eyes, murmuring "Well, this is it, then" over and over again to himself until he fell asleep from exhaustion.

_One Day Later_

REVIVED CONSULTING DETECTIVE FOUND GUILTY

As predicted by most, Sherlock Holmes, the man who ten weeks ago made history by revealing his fake death has been found guilty of-

John didn't finish reading the sentence before he threw the newspaper on the carpet of the living room of 221B. He had never been this furious. His best friend hadn't even been in Pentonville for twenty-four hours and he already couldn't take it anymore. There was too much wrong surrounding this whole situation for him to ever accept it. John walked over to the door where two coats hung: his own and Sherlock's; a policeman had brought it there as he didn't need it. John slowly patted it, feeling some of Sherlock's possessions neatly placed in the pockets. He stamped over to his desk and opened his laptop and then started typing on something he'd once believed he'd never write on again:

8th October 2015

**The Two Trials**

I have to say that in my entire life, there were only two _really _important court cases. Both went the wrong way for me. Some time over three years ago, James Moriarty, as he was still called at the time, walked free after having committed the crime of the century, and not just that: after having built an entire global network, basically responsible for every major crime in Europe.

Yesterday, Sherlock Holmes, a man who tracked down countless criminals, recovered lost valuables and even people, did more for the greater London area's security than Scotland Yard could've dreamed of, and not to mention, is my best friend who like a miracle came back to me after three years, didn't.

Just like that. Because the world prefers the thought that no one should be able to out-smart it, to the fact that maybe some people are in fact brilliant, and these people can turn out good or bad. I knew two such people, one against everyone and everything this world had to offer, the other torn between good and bad, a little misplaced but who then did choose the path of good.

James Moriarty is dead now. I know that's a good thing, but the fact that Sherlock is in prison is a fact I will never come to accept. He was my friend, or better said, still is. That's right, world, John Watson has friends in prison! So if you just came on this website three years after my last post to see what I've been up to, I'm sorry. But if you also still believe in him, believe in my best friend's innocence, and know what unfairness that is in this world right now, you're very welcome to stay. If not, just remember this, you all helped make this happen, and I am holding every single one of you responsible for why he is now in Pentonville instead of at home, in our flat in 221B. You'll be hearing from me, world.


	3. Imprisonment

_One Week Later_

"Twenty minutes," the guard said and pointed to the chair in front of one of the ten glass windows. Two other chairs were being used by dramatic looking women, which made John feel a little uncomfortable. He made his way to the chair and grabbed the phone as he sat down.

Sherlock sat opposite to him. He wore a -for him unusual- grey uniform and seemed to have had an even worse week than John did. John wanted to reach over and just pat his shoulder to comfort him but then he remembered the 1 cm barrier of plexi-glass between them.

Sherlock took the phone on his side as well and held it to his ear.

"Sherlock! I'm so glad to see you... Well not here I mean... Are you all right?"

"Yes, well no, but what did you expect from prison?"

John _almost_ laughed at that.

"Is there any upside to this?"

"Well not for me, but I think you'll be happy to know that they force me to eat." John nodded.

"How have you been?" Sherlock asked.

"I've been fine, I guess... I started writing the blog again."

"Oh really?"

"Yup."

Sherlock nodded. John looked around in disgust.

"How do you survive in here?" John asked.

"I'm not quite sure myself..."

John looked back to check if anyone was listening. He then leaned forward all the way to the window so only Sherlock could see his face.

"Listen, we need to get you out of here."

"Why? What's the point?" John stared at him in disbelief.

"What's the _point_?! The _point_, Sherlock, is we both know you're innocent!"

"And? We lost."

"Lost what? The trial? Look, all I need is to find some solid proof, Mycroft can probably hel-"

"No, not the trial," Sherlock interrupted, "The game, Moriarty's game. Even in death he beat me."

"What do you mean 'we lost'? You're still alive."

"Death, life long imprisonment, what's the difference in the end?"

"You took down his network single-handedly!"

"He wanted me destroyed. That's what he got. Now I'm a fraud, a fake, a coward for so-called 'killing myself', and a liar for not confessing. Well except to you that is..."

Sherlock had stood up and was very tightly holding the phone in his right hand. John got up so their eyes were about at the same height.

"Sherlock... you can't be honestly saying you're giving up?" he said quietly into the speaker.

Sherlock stared at him then turned around.

"See you at the next visiting period..." he mumbled then walked away.

John sat back down in his chair and thought about their last conversation.

Had one week of prison already broken the Consulting Detective? John didn't know the answer but after this conversation, he knew it was his duty to get Sherlock out of here, pronto.

"Hey! What're you still doing here?" John jumped. He hadn't noticed the guard get right behind him and quickly he stood up and walked out the hall.

"I'm going, I'm going," he said, annoyed. Great, the next visiting period was only in a month. This could take a while.

_Two Months Later_

During the couple months, Sherlock had started to get into a boring daily routine. At seven-thirty the plastic alarm clock rang, making the most obnoxious noise to wake him up. He stretched out his arm from under the scratchy blanket and pressed the snooze button. Sherlock placed his hands on the mattress to push himself up then stiffly got up. From seven AM to eight PM his door was open, so he went through and made his way to the showers. At seven forty-five he had showered and put on the grey uniform he hated so dearly. He waited in the cafeteria for fifteen minutes, purposely sitting by a table in the corner where no one else was, until the bell rang and he could go get a tray. On it was bread, some butter, an apple and a cup of bad coffee without any sugar or cream. Sherlock grabbed the bread and took small bites, chewing it slowly and forcing it down though he wasn't hungry. He took a couple sips of the coffee, grimacing at its tastelessness, then put it back on the tray. Sherlock put the tray away and took the apple. He tossed it up and caught it a couple times, then tightly gripped it and brought it to his room.

Once in there, Sherlock turned on the radio to a random station and threw himself back on the bed. It was barely ten past eight. He tried not to concentrate on how slowly time was passing and listened to the news, but it wasn't interesting enough to pay attention to.

Most people at Pentonville had some kind of job to entertain themselves with, but Sherlock just didn't have the motivation for anything, and the jobs there weren't interesting to him anyways.

After what seemed to him like ages he forced himself up and checked the time. It was nine twenty-three. Nothing seemed to pass by quickly here.

His cell was closed so he went to the door and pushed it open. It was a large metal one, of which the heaviness still surprised him every time he opened it. Maybe it was just the fact that while in cell 221 (or 221C as he liked to call it, recalling the 'not-niceness' of the flat below his and relating it to the word 'cell') he sometimes needed a reminder that he wasn't in 221B where the doors were made of light wood.

Sherlock closed the door behind him. He slipped his hands into his pockets like he always did, and slowly strolled down the hall while avoiding looking at anyone passing by, as deductions were the last thing he wanted. The lights in the hallway flared brightly, which irritated him more than it should have. After a long walk through the maze of corridors he was finally outside on the prison grounds. The fresh air did him good, reminded him of home.

Every time he thought of 'home', even though he lived in Pentonville Prison, in cell 221 on wing D, he imagined himself in his flat, in 221B on Baker Street. For the first time ever, Sherlock understood it when people called somewhere other than where they slept 'home'.

He breathed in with his nostrils and let the air out through his mouth, the cold air turning it into steam puffs. He watched them rise until all Sherlock could see was the grey sky over him. A couple pigeons flew by and Sherlock observed them until they bored him, which seemed to take longer than it should. He looked around the prison ground and saw two other prisoners smoking. Sherlock pursed his lips as he realized how much he craved a cigarette in that moment, but coming in contact with anyone he didn't have to, was just not on his schedule. Plus, John would probably be upset if he started again, even if all hope was lost by then. Sherlock walked over to the edge of one of the walls and pulled out the small notebook he always kept in his pocket. Attached to it was an almost empty, blue ballpoint pen. He had found it on the floor at some point and ripped out the already used pages. Sherlock took it and opened the notebook on the next blank page he found, then hesitantly placed the end of the pen on it. He looked up, looking for inspiration. The tree there looked sort of nice in the lighting so quickly he started sketching it out.

Drawing had never been one of his interests, but since he was here, he found it really took his thoughts off things. His mind would actually shut up when he drew. Two pages had been completely scribbled full by the time the twelve-thirty bell rang, reminding Sherlock not only that it was lunchtime, but also that he was in this situation. He sighed and placed the pen back in position, stowed his book back in his pocket and got up. He chewed the tasteless meal and dryly swallowed it down. As soon as he was finished eating he put away his dishes and walked back to his room. It was barely one o'clock. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat down on the chair. He took last week's papers he still hadn't read yet and unfolded them.

He found every single article uninteresting, but still he read through all of them, including the ads, word for word twice and sometimes even three times just to pass the time. After an hour and a half or so, he finally gave in to the ridiculousness and put the newspaper back on the desk. After that he leaned back on the chair and closed his eyes for a moment, mumbling the articles precisely as they were written to himself. All of this was simply him trying to stop the boredom. Well... Maybe boredom was an understatement.

Boredom was when he didn't have a case, when his experiments took a couple days until he could note down the results, when John was out and he couldn't babble his ears full with new ideas and hypotheses. In short, it was when he needed something to happen as quickly as possible. Right now, all he wanted was for the day itself to end as quickly as possible. A better word would be melancholia, loss, sorrow or even depression. But maybe even _that_ was an understatement...

He'd never got the chance to return to his normal life after all. Sherlock opened his eyes again and looked around the room, feeling as if it was growing smaller every second.

"I shouldn't be here", he kept whispering to himself, even though he knew he could do nothing about it. Nothing... Sherlock tossed and turned in bed, then finally managed to fall asleep, around the time the 6:30 dinner bell rang and he stiffly got up. After eating a watery mashed potato and some dry meatloaf, he returned to his room and after two hours, he managed to fall asleep again.

_Three Days Later_

18th December 2015

**Visiting Period**

So I went back to visit Sherlock again today... He was different. He didn't want to do anything to improve his situation. He'd already started talking like that a bit last time I came, but I presumed it was just a phase. He doesn't want to do himself justice, and I don't understand why. Perhaps it's because he feels defeated, perhaps the horribleness of being in prison is simply paralysing him.

He said I should just forget him, and return to my normal life, but how could anyone expect from anyone, to simply forget Sherlock Holmes? And most of all, when this person happens to be your best friend, who risked everything to save you, and who then was framed for crimes he wasn't guilty of? I know, I know, you all think I'm insane for believing this story or even wanting to be around him, but you don't know anything about my life, Sherlock's life and probably most people you know's life! And no, we're still not a couple.

He's broken, and as far as I can tell, only I can fix him, as I'm the only one willing to try to help him. If you want to prove me wrong, and also want to help, then just get the word out, the word that Sherlock Holmes is not a fake, that he's innocent, that he's brilliant. Just help me somehow end this.


	4. Hopeless

_Two Months Later_

Everything Sherlock did was mechanical. He did it automatically, his mind completely somewhere else. But all that happened in that huge, complicated mind of his was a dark idea growing:

_Why would they do this to me if they weren't right? Maybe they are... Maybe I am a fraud._

The depression took up more and more space, pushing away all the sense of logic and right in him, making him truly believe he was a criminal, and that he deserved all this. If someone were to open his grey leather notebook, the first twenty-five pages or so would be drawings of pretty much any object that would pop into their minds, but then they would only find scribbles in an almost unreadable handwriting, all saying "I AM GUILTY."

Because he was guilty, or at least he deeply believed that. He spent restless nights and days when he barely moved an inch. His eyes, which used to be so vivid and focused, were now empty and dull. His mouth, always straight, never quivered or twitched into a smile or even a frown. Doing nothing for five months, knowing that there was no hope for anything better, had just completely broken him. He simply needed something to do!

This wasn't just imprisonment; this was pure torture.

And _that_ was why he believed it: because he couldn't imagine the world being so cruel without any good reason.

One day, he thought it was a Monday, but Saturday or Wednesday seemed possible too, Sherlock was lying in bed mumbling some incoherent sentences into his uncomfortable cushion while the radio was on. He couldn't remember why it was on, but he couldn't be bothered to get up and turn it off. The voices in his head were drowning out all the sound it was making anyways. He was completely sealed off from the rest of the world; nothing from outside could reach him anymore.

Except for one thing.

"Sherlock Holmes wasn't a fake."

There was much more to it, but that was all he heard. Sherlock's eyes ripped open and he frantically turned around and sat up to listen to where this was coming from. He looked at the radio and couldn't believe what he was hearing. John was on the radio.

John hadn't visited Sherlock since he'd told him not to anymore, and somehow, his isolation had made him completely forget about him. Sherlock was so depressed that he'd forgotten his happy life before. He was in such shock that he couldn't hear the rest of the interview, but at some point he managed to catch a couple words:

"...Possible?"

"...friend...innocent."

"...do...know?"

"...just do."

"...planning...do?"

"Get...out."

"How..."

"Don't..."

Only the last sentence fully reached him:

"He isn't a fraud, he isn't guilty and I will do my all to get him out."

Sherlock was excited, thrilled, even overwhelmed when he heard that. Just hearing someone else, someone he completely trusted, one of the very few people he cared for say that no, he wasn't a fraud. And somehow that brought back everything, his logic, his common sense, his knowledge... Sherlock felt infinitely relieved for a minute, feeling himself take control of himself again.

He jumped up joyfully and hit his desk with his leg. Suddenly he remembered the size of the room he was in, and he realized that his problems were far from over.

Sherlock pursed his lips and sat down on the chair in front of the desk. He closed his eyes and concentrated as hard as he could on trying to solve the problem. He wouldn't be able to get any proof of his newly rediscovered innocence locked up here, and he couldn't contact anyone. That meant there was only one option left: Prison breakout.

Sherlock immediately reached for his notebook in his pocket and searched for the first blank page. He opened it and took the pen, writing down every idea that popped into his head about how he could pull it off. He smirked, as for the first time in his entire five months of being at Pentonville, he wasn't bored at all.


	5. A Meeting in the Bathroom

_Two weeks later_

The excitement quickly passed though, as he soon came to realize that he could never plan an escape without a plan of the prison. Still, he made sure that this time he didn't let his goal out of sight. He would get out one day. Hopefully.

To keep himself busy, he started writing down complicated mathematical and chemistry-related formulas in his notebook, even started devising cases of his own, but at some point, that didn't help anymore either. He needed a distraction. Quickly.

Sherlock decided to take a walk through the various halls of Pentonville, so he could A) get an idea of the entire thing and B) find something new to do. With slow paces he walked through the many corridors, looking around everywhere and taking in every single detail that could be of use. He hummed some melody he once heard but couldn't remember the name of as he put his hands in his pockets and almost seemed happy for that moment. Maybe it was that he was in a different place than usual, which made him not feel so locked in, maybe it was simply the fact that he was probably humming for the first time in years. But that moment only held on until he bumped into someone.

"Oi! Watch where you're goin'!" Sherlock turned his head and found himself staring at a tall, muscular and bald man, mid-forties, who was looking angrily at him. He was tattooed from his wrists to presumably his shoulders, but with his sleeves Sherlock couldn't know for sure.

"Sorry..." he mumbled and kept on walking down the hall looking at his feet.

What he didn't notice was that before the man continued walking as well, he took a second look at Sherlock.

The bell rang again: lunchtime. Sherlock made his way to the cafeteria, and for the first time in five months he actually felt hungry. After getting a tray with not very appetizing soup and hard, whole-wheat bread on it, he made his way to his usual, lonely table in the corner of the room. He ate more quickly than normally, now that he had something to do again in his spare time, but from the corner of his eye he noticed the man he'd bumped into earlier. The man had entered the cafeteria, and now he was standing in front of the door looking around the room. First, he fixated on Sherlock, who then tried to look away. After that, he looked a little more, then made his way to a table on the other end of the room, without having got a tray. The table he was aiming at had about twenty men eating their meals. He walked over to a rather small man and whispered something in his ear. The man's eyes flashed over to Sherlock for a second and he nodded at the taller one. He then proceeded to another man who was sitting five people further. The exact same thing happened.

He then made his way to a table that was right next to Sherlock and an identical process went on with one more man, seemingly unconnected to the others: he told them something, they stared at Sherlock for a moment and nodded. The tattooed man then went to get a tray of his own and sat at an unrelated table.

Sherlock had watched with knitted eyebrows. He knew this was about him but he couldn't understand what these men could be planning. Sherlock finished his soup and watched the tattooed man as he went to put his tray away. The man was watching him as well.

Sherlock opened the door and exited the cafeteria. He then headed for the bathroom. After entering the empty room, he first walked over to the mirror and stared at his reflection for a while.

Just in the moment when he wanted to turn around and go into one of the stalls, he felt someone grab hold of his collar, pull him backwards and then pin him against the wall.

Sherlock took a shuddered breath, as the tattooed man was blocking some of his air. Behind him stood the three men that he had talked to earlier, one of them notably small.

"Where do you think you're goin', Holmes?"

Sherlock looked at him questioningly. How could they know his name? He hadn't uttered it once since his arrival.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Tut tut, the Consulting Detective doesn't remember us", the man giggled, "But don't worry, we'll make sure you have a lot of memory of us after we're done with you."

And suddenly Sherlock remembered, and he realized that maybe, there were people that hated him more than the members of Scotland Yard, _much_ more.

Four cases popped into his head as he looked at them more carefully:

_George Parkinson, age 43, 6'6'', tattooed from wrist to shoulders, ex-professional boxer, arrested 8 years ago for the brutal, yet brilliantly planned murder of his not appreciating coach, Mike Bradley. Parkinson had picked the exact right moment to kill him, right after he'd walked out on his wife, giving her the perfect motive. The police had almost made the arrest, leaving out the careless detail that the house, to which Mrs Bradley still owned a key, had been broken into. Life-long imprisonment._

_Albert Tyler, age 36, 5'11'', uses contact lenses, drop-out computer science student, amazingly talented hacker though, hacked into the security systems of the national gallery four years ago and stole a couple valuable artworks, but as he hadn't expected any guards, those five who saw him had been violently killed with enough carelessness for me to know who did it, however untraceable his virus was. Life-long imprisonment._

_Steven Harris, age 32, 5'2'', scar over left eyebrow, contortion artist, formerly part of a black-market circus; when a journalist found out it was illegal and wanted to out it in the papers five years back, Harris was sent to kill him, but he ended up also killing the journalist's wife as she was witness of Harris' crime. It could've been anyone from the circus, until I noticed that only someone of notably small height and with great contortion skills could've fled, not through the open door as everyone thought (it was actually the wife entering the house) but through the open window. Life-long imprisonment._

_Mike Davison, age 57, 6'1'', right ear pierced, former police officer in the States, seven years ago he killed his wife and work colleague, after finding out they were having an affair, left no traces as he knew what the police would look for, sadly not what I would. Life-long imprisonment._

"You're the criminals in this prison I had arrested. The ones who've been sentenced to life-long imprisonment," Sherlock said calmly, still caught between the wall and Parkinson's fist.

"Well, what do ya know? He knows us!" Davison said grimly.

"The thing is," Tyler stated, "even though _you're_ the criminal now, we're still stuck in here."

Sherlock couldn't help but roll his eyes.

"Because I supposedly hired you to do what you did."

"Well whatever it was you did, Holmes", Parkinson said, pushing harder at Sherlock's chest than before, "we are going to get our revenge."

Parkinson was lifting his arm and balling his hand into a tight fist. Sherlock tried to tug himself free but the man was too strong for him. He glanced at the others, who were smiling at him, happy they could finally get their vengeance. The tall man's fist charged for Sherlock's face and was going to hit him with tremendous force.

"Wait!"

The fist stopped less than an inch before his nose and Parkinson lowered his arm. He leaned in closer to him looking at him suspiciously.

"What is it?"

"We have something in common!"

They all laughed.

"As if _we_ would have something in common with _you_!"

Sherlock pursed his lips and waited until none of them were even giggling anymore.

"I want to get out of here just as much as you do, if not more."

Suddenly their faces all became serious and they narrowed their eyes at him.

"What d'you mean, Holmes?"

"I mean, I can get every single one of us out of here, but I need your help."

"Why should we help you?!" Parkinson practically spat out the words.

"Because", Sherlock took a deep breath, "all of you have either this or you can stay in prison for several more decades, and even though you may understandably despise me with all your heart, you know I'm your only hope out of here."

There was a long pause in the bathroom, the four men all piercing Sherlock with their gazes. Just for a second he thought they were all going to tackle him at once, when suddenly Harris spoke for the first time:

"Suppose we do help you, and we all get out of here, and you get your reputation back, what happens to us? Do we just get thrown back in here as we're guilty after all?"

Sherlock smirked, "Leave Britain and you're not my problem anymore, I can probably arrange for you to get a new identity, but only after I get my innocence back."

They all thought a little and looked at each other, all but Parkinson seeming to truly consider Sherlock's offer. After everyone had nodded, Parkinson rolled his eyes and turned back to Sherlock who he was still holding onto.

"Fine", he then pulled Sherlock up to his face so that there was basically no space between their eyes, "But one step out of line, any funny business and I'll make sure you never get out of here again, understood?"

Sherlock nodded.

"You might've persuaded all the others, but I'll be keeping an eye on you, I don't trust you, Holmes."

"Why? Because I'm a criminal mastermind?" Sherlock asked bitterly.

"No," Parkinson let go of Sherlock who then slid down the wall and sat on the bathroom floor for a while, "because I know you aren't one."

The five of them stood in a silence that seemed like it would never end

"So what do we do?" Tyler asked, turning his head to Sherlock expectantly.

"I don't know, I need a plan of the prison before I can do anything..." Sherlock admitted.

"I can get you that!" Davison said.

"Really? How?"

"Davison's a 'good boy' and used to work for the police. The guards trust him", Harris explained.

"Excellent", said Sherlock, rubbing his hands together and pacing up and down the room.

"How fast can you get them?" he asked.

"Well they'd be in the archives and I have access there."

"Even to the plans of the prison?"

"The guards here are idiots, they probably don't even know what's in the archives."

Everyone in the room laughed.

"Fine, get me those plans and I can figure out the rest on my own."

"Ah, ah, ah. No, I want to be there all the time when you plan the escape," Parkinson said.

"But where could I do it, other than in my cell where no one sees me?!"

The tattooed man sighed. "Fine, but we'll meet at every meal, and you'll tell us everything you've got up to then, and if you withhold anything..." he pointed his fingers menacingly at Sherlock.

"Understood."

"Good. Davison, get those plans and we'll see each other at dinner." And with that, Parkinson left the bathroom and the others quickly followed, leaving Sherlock alone in front of the sinks. He breathed in and looked at himself in the mirror.

"I will make it", he whispered and then returned to 221C.

_Six Hours Later_

The bell rang and that meant that Sherlock had to go back to the cafeteria and have his first 'meeting'. Full of excitement, a feeling he hadn't felt in a while, he ran down the hallway until a guard told him that was prohibited. He entered the large room and his eyes flashed around the room looking for any of his new allies. Davison and Tyler were already sat together on one end of a table, and Sherlock headed towards them, almost forgetting to get a tray of his own. After quickly getting it, he sat down on the chair opposite Tyler, who nodded at him. Suddenly he felt something push on his knee. Sherlock purposely dropped his fork and bent over to get it and see what had pushed his knee. In Davison's hands were the plans, carefully rolled together. Sherlock took them and folded them so that they would nicely fit into his pocket, then reached for the napkin and started to eat. Harris and Parkinson joined the three soon after that and none of them uttered a word as they ate.

After returning back to cell 221 on wing D, Sherlock carefully unfolded the plans and studied their every detail. He marked where which security camera was, which door needed which kind of key, anything that could be useful, and before he knew it, Sherlock had been staring at the plans all night as suddenly his alarm clock rang.

Sherlock looked around in surprise when the sudden noise came and he rubbed his eyes after noticing the time. He yawned and pushed himself away from the table. He took the plans and his other notes and put them in his pocket. He then got ready and made his way to the cafeteria.

The new allies were all around their own table silently eating when Parkinson whispered:

"So how far have you got, Holmes?" Sherlock looked around to make sure no one was nearby.

"I've been looking for spots were it's possible to be unnoticed, so far I haven't found any, but I'm still looking."

"You better find something."

"Yes..." Sherlock said annoyed that he was being threatened by someone who was supposed to be behind bars forever, and not be able to threaten him.


	6. The Escape

_Six Weeks Later_

22nd April 2016

Six months in and I'm still basically nowhere here. Thanks for all your continued support to everyone who's trying to help! The rest, you know what I think of you.

Please keep holding on, Sherlock! I promise you you'll be out in no time, I hope.

_One Day Later_

Sherlock was wide awake when his alarm clock rang. He'd tried to get some sleep but he wasn't able to, he was too nervous; today was the big day. Today, after six months and if everything went well, he would flee.

Every day all he'd been doing in the last month was planning every last detail of how he, Mike Davison, Albert Tyler, Steven Harris and Richard Parkinson would escape Pentonville Prison on the twenty-third of April 2016. He couldn't remember ever having worked so hard on something, but it simply had to work, there was no other way.

The operation was only going to start at twelve, so Sherlock needed to find something to distract himself until that moment came. Of course he first got dressed and had the usual, not very tasty breakfast. Afterwards Sherlock returned to 221C for the last time (he hoped). He lay down on the hard mattress he'd gotten used to by now and stared at the ceiling. Although he hated everything about cell 221 on wing D, the idea that he would never see any of it again felt weird, suddenly it was as if he'd never been to 221B Baker Street, and returning there was like entering some stranger's house. John felt oddly distant from him as well. Maybe he'd be completely different from the John he knew. How much could six months change one person? Sherlock didn't know. Did _he_ change in that time? Probably. Would John like the 'new' Sherlock? All these questions bounced around in his head, none of them really having an answer. So Sherlock decided to do what distracted him best since he didn't have a violin anymore: draw.

He pulled his notebook out, finding it almost full; five pages were still free. Sherlock decided to use the entire fifth-last page for what he was going to do next. He took his chair in his left hand and carried it to the door of the cell and looked at his surroundings. He then started sketching all of 221C in every last detail, carefully laying the escape-plan out in his mind and going through it one last time, until no more ink at all was left in his pen. Sherlock sighed and pocketed his notebook away then checked the time. It was 11:30.

He started nervously pacing around the room, checking if there was anything he wanted to keep, though he practically had no possessions. When the clock struck 11:40, he started panicking a tiny bit, wondering what would happen to him of he was caught. Would they just keep him there? Would he get more restrictions? What would Parkinson do to him? Nothing nice, anyways. What if he wouldn't be able to prove his innocence after the escape? Would he just be thrown back in here, after he'd barely survived six months of this hell? At 11:50 the nervousness increased so much that he needed to go and get some fresh air before this all started. He took all he had, the plans and his notebook and left the room, giving it one last look.

Once outside he managed to relax a little. Slowly he breathed in the cool air, and felt the breeze refreshing him. Sherlock looked around and took in every detail of his surroundings. He noticed the two men who frequently came out here to smoke, though it was prohibited, and again Sherlock felt a great urge for a cigarette. He then looked away and promised himself that should he get out, he would never smoke a cigarette again. Sherlock checked the clock on the building: it was 11:57.

_Time to go._

And he made his way to the wood workshop. Sherlock, unlike most people at the prison, hadn't taken up a place at a workshop, having no interest in any there were. Parkinson and Davison, on the other hand, had taken up a new hobby since their arrival here. Sherlock entered the room and looked around. Harris and Davison were in the corner by the electric saws and the screwdrivers, discussing the plan. He slowly walked over to them and nodded. They stopped talking and looked back at him. There was an awkward silence.

A couple seconds later Tyler entered the room and soon after that Parkinson followed. As much as Sherlock was the sole creator of the entire escape, it was still Parkinson who was considered the leader of the group. Nothing was done without him agreeing to it (except maybe for Sherlock to even get their help), probably just because he was the largest, not to mention the scariest, one of them.

"You all know what to do?" he asked looking around at the other four. All of whom nodded.

"Then to your positions!"

Tyler and Davison had to stay in the wood workshop room. They'd chosen exactly this date because they'd found out the supervisor wouldn't be there all day, so they locked the door once Sherlock, Parkinson and Harris left and started to work on how to get the bracelets off. Tyler hadn't managed up to then but he supposed that if he could have a spare hand to work on now that he didn't have to be alone in his cell, he could figure out how to get it off without setting off any alarms.

The three others made their way outside to the corner of wing C where there was only one security camera, attached to the low roof of the building, the only camera that worked for the plan. Parkinson nodded at Harris who then made his way to the eaves. Sherlock and Parkinson went to where they would be clearly visible for the camera and acted as if they were getting in an argument which could potentially turn into a fight. They basically just said nonsense and pointed fingers at each other threateningly. When Parkinson was sure that the camera was focused on them, he pointed at Sherlock and screamed out.

"You!" Sherlock stood still.

That was Harris's sign. He started climbing up the eaves as fast as he could, which was a remarkable speed, until he reached the security camera. Harris now had a few minutes before the person controlling the cameras came to the conclusion to make it face him.

From the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw Harris take out the small rock, chosen from hundreds, as it was the best to fit in the small area beneath the camera where only the small arm was holding it, and the plate on which the arm was attached. Holding on to the eaves with one hand, the small brown haired man forced the pebble into the free space. The camera was now unable to turn.

Step one was complete.

Harris slid down the pipe and joined Parkinson and Sherlock, who'd stopped acting as if they were fighting and seemed to be talking normally now, at least according to the camera. They then made their way to the corner of the wall and into the area the camera now couldn't see. The plan was that sooner or later, a guard would come by to check what had happened to the camera and then Parkinson could knock him out in the zone the camera wouldn't be able to see. They'd practised in that area for a couple hours, making sure to never enter the zone, and never let anyone else do so. Aside from the planning itself, it was probably the most difficult part of the plan, not being seen by cameras. This was the only place that this stunt was even possible, and it was already incredibly difficult like that!

Sherlock, Parkinson and Harris stood tightly together against the wall, exchanging looks with each other. They waited there for a good couple of minutes but no one came.

"Check the camera", Parkinson whispered the order to Sherlock. He nodded and peeked around the corner then looked back.

"Still stuck", he confirmed. Sherlock hated being pushed around by Parkinson, a man who he once had more than proven himself superior to. But now it was different, now Sherlock didn't have the police, the law or justice on his side. Now he was all by himself in this world. Just like it'd been for the past three and a half years. But at least then he got _some_ help. Now, he was in Parkinson's grounds, his territory, he was (at least for Sherlock) where he belonged. And Sherlock wasn't.

Sometimes he hated the fact that he was helping real-life criminals out of prison, and didn't know what to do if that became part of his crimes even if he was proven innocent. He would come up with something, he was sure of that.

At least ten minutes had already passed. Why was no one coming? Sherlock leaned his head around the wall so he could see when the guard was coming first but soon, Harris and Parkinson did so as well. It was a pretty odd sight. They remained in that position for a couple minutes, still no guard passed.

"Oi! What do you three think you're doin'?!" a voice came from behind them angrily. The three of them jumped in surprise and turned around. A man wearing a white shirt and black trousers was standing in front of them, hands on hips, with an angry look on his face. The three of them had completely forgotten that it was possible to come from both sides. None of them answered, staring at the guard. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him trying to make out as much as he could.

"Well?!", the guard yelled furiously.

Sherlock turned around and stepped on his tiptoes to be able to whisper to Parkinson:

"Left arm for you, the cast just got off."

There was a brief silence, then a snap.


	7. There's Only One Way

With his strong arms, Parkinson had pulled the guard's right arm and swiftly twisted it breaking the bone immediately. The guard screamed in pain but he was quickly silenced by Parkinson's punch in the face, which knocked him out instantly. All this time they'd managed to stay out of the camera's sight perfectly. Sherlock kneeled down to check over him, trying to calculate how long he'd be unconscious.

"He probably won't be out longer than a couple minutes. Parkinson, make sure that if he wakes up, you knock him out again, but don't make any injuries serious! You don't want any extra charges for this!"

Suddenly he felt something grab at his collar and roughly pull him up. Parkinson's big hands forced Sherlock to turn around and face him.

"First of all, I don't take my orders from you, Holmes. Second of all, why would we get any _extra_ charges if we're going to be free after this?! Let one of your future plans slip?"

The hand around Sherlock's shirt tightened and pinched the back of his neck. Parkinson lifted him up a little harder so that only by completely stretching his feet out and looking up he could still touch the ground. Sherlock took a deep breath.

"No, I mean if we're caught doing this. Just do as I say! We're just losing time here!"

Parkinson snorted and released Sherlock. He rubbed the back of his neck and returned to the unconscious guard on the ground.

"Okay, we need his thumb print, his uniform and his ID card", Sherlock said rubbing his hands.

"We know!" Harris yelled, annoyed at the same time. Sherlock sighed at the realiziation that his presence was only tolerated, but far from appreciated. The only reason they hadn't injured him up to this point was because he was their only ticket out. In short, the desire to get out of Pentonville Prison for good was the only thing capable of trumping each and every one of their hatred for the Consulting Detective.

Sherlock took a small vial with pencil shavings inside and a paintbrush he'd stolen from the art workshop. After opening the vial, he slowly lowered the brush into it and when it was covered in pencil shavings he lifted it up again and carefully brushed the man's thumb until it was tinted a dark grey. Sherlock turned back to face the others who were silently watching him.

"Which one of you has the tape?"

Without saying a word, Harris pulled it out of his pocket and handed it to him.

"Thank you."

Sherlock turned around and ripped a short piece off. He then took the brush again and patted the rest of the shavings off. With it, he carefully stroked over the guard's other thumb and then, seemingly without any reason, brushed it on to the tape. Afterwards he did the well known sticking of the tape onto the grey thumb so that the print was on it. Sherlock stuck the end of the piece of tape to his finger, making sure he didn't smudge the print, and took out his notebook with his other hand. It opened on the page he'd placed a small envelope in and he took it. He carefully put the tape inside and sealed it. After he had placed the envelope back in the book, a gust of wind blew the envelope out of the open book. Harris quickly caught it, but Parkinson caught a glimpse of the middle page, one of the ones scribbled with "I AM GUILTY" on every white spot on the paper. Sherlock saw Parkinson glimpse at it, and as soon as Harris gave him the envelope again he placed it back and closed it as quickly as possible.

Parkinson considered the grey notebook curiously.

"What's that?" he asked while grabbing at it.

Sherlock pulled it back frantically, staring at him furiously.

"That", he hissed, "is none of your business." This was the first time he'd ever lost control of himself in his allies' presence. But this was his only possession. It was filled with his private thoughts. No one, and especially not Parkinson, would just take it from him.

The tattooed man raised his eyebrows at Sherlock's fury but didn't keep going with the fight. He turned around, softly chuckling.

"All right", Sherlock finally said, "we need to get him to the shed before he wakes up."

There was a small shed around the corner, made for the prison gardeners . The camera could see them, but Sherlock had found out that it switched regularly, watching any one direction only every ninety seconds and giving them some time to put the man in. They took off his uniform and three men carried the man, now only in boxers, carefully along the wall, until they saw the shed. The zone from where the camera could see them was extremely precise in all of their, especially Sherlock's, minds and they stopped right in front of it. After a while the camera turned to face away, and Harris let go of the man and quickly went to open the shed.

Suddenly Sherlock noticed the guard's eyes lazily open. At first he panicked but then he remembered what to do if something like this happened.

"Vatican cameos!"

Immediately Parkinson and Harris looked up and noticed as well. For a second Sherlock was afraid that Parkinson wouldn't do what they had planned, just to irritate him because of what he'd said, but as planned, Parkinson hit the guard roughly in the face, making sure it wasn't too hard. It didn't have to be anyways, the shock from being hit right after waking up was plenty.

They then slowly placed him inside the shed and closed the door in front of him. Sherlock and Parkinson were about to walk away when they heard chains clinging against each other coming from behind. Sherlock turned around to look, and saw Harris lock the shed from outside. Suddenly, a bad feeling started shaping in his stomach: guilt. He bit his lip, rethinking the entire thing, wondering how much damage they could be causing the man inside. He would wake up in an unknown area and soon realize that he was stuck there. But they'd find him at some point... Right?

Sherlock watched as Parkinson and Harris started walking away, but just as he might've done something to open the door, the camera turned back to watch him, so he slowly stepped away as if nothing had happened.

He decided, however, that once out of here, he wouldn't do such a thing unless absolutely necessary, and certainly not to innocent people. First of all, out of fear of coming back, but second of all, because the feeling of guilt that had nagged him for three years hiding away and pretending to be dead to his friends, but even more for four months, when he'd actually believed he was a criminal, and by no means did he ever want that to happen again.

The five men met again in the wood workshop. When Sherlock entered the room Parkinson, Harris, Davison and Tyler were already talking to each other. They didn't notice him enter but after he slammed the door harshly behind him, all of them fell silent and looked towards him. He locked the door and stepped forward to them.

Parkinson took the uniform the guard had worn and threw it in Sherlock's direction."

"Put this on, then come back", he ordered. Sherlock nodded and left the room. Sherlock took them and went to a small side room of the workshop, where all the tools were.

Once the door shut behind him the four men turned back, facing each other.

"What do you mean you can't get it to work?!" Parkinson asked Tyler angrily.

"I don't know this technology! I haven't been on a real computer in years! And this is top-level security. Somehow, all the alarms can only be switched off for a couple seconds without the correct codes."

Parkinson sighed and thought as he scratched his neck. He then had an idea and his eyes flashed back to the shut door.

"How long can you disable them?" he asked quickly.

Tyler thought a little.

"About thirty seconds, not nearly long enough to force it off."

Parkinson nodded, then smirked. "I know how we're going to do this, guys."

A couple minutes later, the door opened again, and out stepped Sherlock, fully dressed as a Pentonville Prison guard. The four men were talking just like they had been when he'd entered the workshop at first. And just like then, they all stopped talking and stared at him once they'd realized he was in their presence. As the awkward silence couldn't be broken and none of the men would take their eyes off him, Sherlock cleared his throat and asked:

"What? What is it?"

"Grab him." Parkinson said, and immediately Davison and Harris ran to him and held Sherlock by both arms.

"What are you doing?" he asked, trying to tug himself free.

"We're getting ourselves out", Parkinson replied, as the two men pulled Sherlock closer to the table.

"What do you mean?"

"The shock alarm on the bracelets will only disable for thirty seconds. So we're going to get it off you and as you already are dressed as a guard anyway, you can get into the security room and disable ours."

As Parkinson explained he seemed to be reaching for something under the table but Sherlock couldn't see what it was.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as Davison took his left hand and forcefully held it down on the table. "If you can get mine off, why are you forcing me like this? And why can't you just get it off everyone instead of being so complicated?"

Tyler took a screwdriver and leaned over Sherlock's wrist, carefully unscrewing a small plate from it. Moving the plate revealed the many wires inside and showed how complicated the mechanics were. Tyler took the screwdriver and carefully placed it over one little switch inside it. He looked over to Parkinson, who was smirking at Sherlock, and nodded. Parkinson nodded back at him and finally replied to Sherlock:

"Because it's going to hurt." Sherlock didn't understand what he was talking about.

"Now!" Tyler yelled and flicked the switch over. Suddenly Parkinson lifted his hand, which had been holding a hammer all this time and then hit as hard as he could on Sherlock's wrist.


	8. The Hammer

Sherlock shrieked at the sudden pain. He couldn't withdraw his hand as Davison was holding it in place. He was much stronger than he looked. Sherlock looked at his hand that had automatically shaped into a fist at the impact of the hammer, and just as he thought it was over, the hammer struck his wrist again, and again, and again.

At four, Sherlock had already lost count. It was so hard for him to concentrate. The shock of recent events made the agony in his wrist multiply, as did the fact that he'd grown more sensitive during his time here. Every time he thought it was over, it seemed the hammer came back with twice the force. There'd been countless injuries in his life, but none had been fuelled by such rage and desire, none had hurt nearly as much. When he heard something snap he let out another shuddered sigh, thinking it was the bracelet, but when he looked back at his now blue wrist, he saw that the bracelet was still in one piece.

What he'd heard was his bone.

Sherlock cursed his resistance as all he wanted to do in that moment was faint so that the hurting would finally be over.

But it continued, it wasn't even going numb. Why wasn't it going numb at some point? Why wasn't he _dead_ yet?!

He probably would've known the answer, had concentration not been more difficult than at any point in his life. He could feel the cold metal over him, never hitting him at the same spot, so that everywhere around his bracelet hurt, and the warmer metal below his hand, the bracelet itself, dug itself in his skin and created even more hissing pain.

Sherlock's eyes were pressed together and he was still making some kind of noise, but he wasn't even sure what it sounded like. The pain started being was everywhere now, as if his body was trying to balance it out. In fact, he probably wouldn't have noticed if Parkinson had started to hammer on his head. A tear escaped his eye and rolled down his burning red cheek. Suddenly, a dazzling ordeal shot through Sherlock. It wasn't just the strongest hit up to now; it was also a different kind of pain. One that sort of made him forget the other kind.; an electric shock. And then, the hammering ended.

Sherlock had almost stopped breathing at the fear of the new form of torture, but then he let out a sigh as it was finally over. But the effects of the shock only held on for a bit, as suddenly the agony in his wrist returned, though slightly subdued. The hammer was definitely not hitting it anymore. He slowly opened his eyes to see what had happened. Davison was no longer holding his arm in place, and as Sherlock's eyes slowly followed it to his forearm, he was pleased to see that the bracelet was now cracked in two pieces and he could easily remove his hand. He wasn't so pleased, though, when he realized that the pain returned the moment he tried to move it.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and quickly pulled his hand out of the bracelet, wincing a tiny bit. He carefully lifted his arm while holding his left hand with his right one so it wouldn't fold backwards due to the broken bone or possibly even bones. Sherlock then made an arms-crossed-like position so he could rest his hand on his arm.

The three men stared at him as if they were expecting some witty comeback line but Sherlock remained silent. He then noticed he'd completely lost his sense of time.

"How long was that?" he asked.

"A bit under thirty seconds", Tyler replied.

_What?!_

Those had definitely been the longest thirty seconds of his life. Sherlock took a shuddered breath but then decided he wouldn't let the others see this part of him (although they probably had already seen more than enough of it).

"So," he managed to say without his voice cracking, "what am I supposed to do now exactly?" That he almost managed.

Parkinson sighed. "Go to the control room on wing A, you'll have access to it with your card and the print, from there you can disable our bracelets. After that come that come straight back here. We'll be waiting. Remember the numbers: two-fi-"

"Don't be absurd in thinking I don't already know them."

Parkinson raised his eyebrows at him and Sherlock turned around, heading for the door with a tiny smirk. The only abnormality in his behaviour was the way he held his left arm, but details were unimportant now. He closed the door with the back of his foot so that he wouldn't have to use either arm, then it suddenly occurred to him that a guard in that position would look suspicious, so cautiously, he let his arm hang down and started walking slowly so it wouldn't rock too much. At first it hurt a little but soon enough he got used to it and the pain was tolerable. His eyes kept flashing at the cameras and but he avoided looking at them in case someone recognized his face.

Suddenly he realized something: Either Parkinson was an idiot, or he really did trust him; Sherlock had everything: his chip was off, he had the ID card and the thumbprint, which originally was just for if they really needed it (which in this case was correct). He could easily walk out of here. Parkinson had, literally, given him a "get out of jail free" card. For a second, Sherlock considered it. After all, these people were all skilled murderers who really did belong in jail, but they could easily betray him if he betrayed them, and also the idea was very unattractive to him. It just seemed like such unfair playing to do it. He and his allies had worked on this plan for a month, and now they were going to go through with it. And that was final.


	9. Restricted Access

Sherlock turned into the corridor on wing A and at the end of the hall he could finally see the control room. He then quickened his pace but when his left wrist just swung a tiny bit towards his body, he slowed down again and tightened his eyes. With his right hand, Sherlock reached into his pocket and he pulled the envelope out of his notebook. Somehow he managed to get the tape out of it with only one hand and without smudging anything.

Sherlock slowly stepped over to the familiar lock and with the tape stuck to his index finger, he reached to his belt, took the card and swiped it through the lock. The screen went green and a little textbox asking for a thumbprint appeared. Sherlock carefully placed it over the screen and waited, remembering a conversation he'd once had with John:

"_Graphite and tape, isn't that like the oldest trick in the book?"_

_"Those are usually the best", Sherlock replied, not looking up while he stuck the graphite tape onto the screen. It lit up instantly and Sherlock grinned proudly at John. _

_"Plus", he added, "Few people actually know that these usually also check for traces of thumb oil", He pushed down the now unlocked doorknob while explaining, "That's why I rubbed the tape on his thumb before getting the print."_

Sherlock smiled remembering it, wondering if it was going to work. He stared at the screen for god knows how long, and just when he'd given up hope, it lit up green and he heard the click of a lock. Sherlock beamed and turned the knob, slowly stepping in. He found himself in a darkened room, lit only by the bluish gleam of the many screens in front of a desk at the other end of the room. A man sat in the chair lazily watching the screens, waiting for something to happen. The room was pretty small so it only took Sherlock four steps to get right behind him without the man noticing. He breathed in so softly that under the ventilators of the many computers it was completely inaudible. Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he carefully considered every screen out of curiosity. Most of them just showed empty hallways and courtyards; one of them, however, camera 26, had "FAULTY" written over the screen. Sherlock let out a small chuckle, and a second later he realized his mistake.

The chair turned and the man in it stood up and looked at Sherlock carefully.

"What are you doing here?"

"I- uh..." Sherlock thought for a moment, but then he remembered that he wasn't a prisoner to the other man. He cleared his throat. "I'm supposed to take over your shift."

The man looked at him in disbelief.

"Really? It isn't supposed to end for another hour."

"Yes... the boss said that you deserved a break."

"Hmmm... Seems like he finally started to listen. But wait, who are you? I've never seen you around here before."

Sherlock needed to think up a name, fast. One that didn't belong to anyone associated with the prison, whether prisoner or guard, one that didn't sound suspiciously common or uncommon. Quickly he said the first thing that came to his mind.

"John Watson." His lips tightened as the other man looked at him piercingly.

There was a beat.

"Well, nice to meet you, John." The man shook his hand. "I'm Andrew Sanders", he said in a friendly voice. He then looked at him carefully, as if he was trying to remember him.

"Wait, I'm sure I've never seen you working here but I know you from somewhere." He narrowed his eyes and looked at him carefully. Sherlock swallowed, he was on to him. He was recognizing him as a prisoner, but he decided to go with the "if you say you can't remember you look really mean"-technique.

"Where do I know you from?" Sanders asked cautiously.

"Oh! Silly me! We were in the same class in college, remember?"

"Oh... Right! Well, we should catch up at dinner, see you then."

"I look forward to it."

And with that the door closed and Sherlock was finally alone in the security room.

Sherlock stood there for a second as if to make sure he was really alone in the room. He pondered the question of whether he should lock the door or not. Soon, he decided that if someone were to try to open it and find it locked, their suspicions would grow right away. The chances of someone even coming seemed low though, as Sanders had seemed surprised at someone being there. That decision out of the way, Sherlock slowly stepped over to the desk and pulled the chair out. He sat inside and grabbed the mouse with his right hand, carefully letting his left one rest on the table. Sherlock looked at the main monitor, which was at his eye level, and opened a search box. Quickly he typed in:

Disable alarm chips

SEARCHING...

Sherlock impatiently watched the small stick spin on the screen as the computer calculated its answer.

ACCESS RESTRICTED TO SENIOR EMPLOYEES

"What? No!" Sherlock shouted, hitting both his fists on the desk. He then whined a little after the feeling returned to his left arm. But his wrist was the least of his problems now. He wasn't allowed into the systems, simply because they'd picked the wrong guard! Sherlock pushed himself back and got up. He nervously paced up and down the room thinking up solutions, finding none. He looked around at the monitors, his eyes flashing around panicky. The only other solution was to hit every single bracelet off, but then they'd only have a total of five useful arms. There had to be some other way!

_Come on, Sherlock, think!_

Sherlock looked around the room while running his good hand through his hair. He then looked back at the desk and saw a card inserted in the keyboard; _Sanders'_ card. A card of a man who looked rather young. And he remembered the man they'd knocked out. He must've been in his late fifties.

"Oh..." Sherlock face-palmed himself then took out his card again, on which it said in capital letters:

SENIOR EMPLOYEE

Sherlock laughed, embarrassed though no one else had seen his mistake, and walked back over to the desk. He took out the card Sanders had forgotten to take out and inserted his own. The monitor did some computing and lit up green. Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed out.

SELECT CHIP ID NUMBER TO DISABLE

With one hand, Sherlock quickly typed:

2-5-8-2-2-1-3, 3-8-7-1-4-6, 1-7-8-1-3-2 and 2-4-3-8-5-9

He pressed enter and watched the stick twist again. Nervously, he tapped the table with his fingers and waited for a result.

DISABLEMENT OF CHIPS 1-7-8-1-3-2, 2-4-2-2-1-8, 2-6-3-8-5-9, and 3-8-7-1-4-6 GRANTED

Sherlock sighed, and was just about to take his card when something new popped up on the screen:

... FOR THIRTY MINUTES UNTIL CONFIRMED


	10. Traitors

_Thirty minutes?!_

Sherlock had half an hour to get the four others out of here or else they would be caught if they were in a no-prisoner zone. He checked the time. It was three to two in the afternoon; they had until two twenty-seven to be in the undetectable zone. He swallowed, promised himself to make it, grabbed the card and stormed out the door. He ran through the hallways, completely disregarding his arm, only stopping to walk when someone passed him, which annoyingly was very often. Three wings and five corridors later, he was panting in front of the wood workshop. He checked the time on the clock over the door; it was a five past two. He took a deep breath and opened the door.

"Guys! We only have twenty-two minutes to-", he broke off when he saw that the room was empty. Sherlock looked around, his eyes searching every corner of the workshop.

It didn't take him too long to put two and two together:

The bracelets must've made some kind of noise or light signalling the disablement. As soon as they noticed that they were free they ran off. Parkinson knew exactly that Sherlock was too 'good' to not go on with the plan, even though he could've just walked out. For a small moment Sherlock had actually had the silly thought, that they no longer were his rivals, but apparently those feelings weren't mutual. All they had needed him for was one thing: get them out. And once he'd arranged that, they just left him. Sherlock bit his lips as he realized the bitter truth but then decided to still follow through with the plan as it could continue without any external help. The others probably had a plan of their own which made Sherlock not have to run into them, which was definitely good.

As quickly as possible he made his way to wing B, passing cell 221 on wing D. For a second he stopped and looked over to the cell he was in not four hours ago, which still managed to feel so far from him. 221B had never been as close to him in the six months. He then continued his quick pace all the way to wing B and found the cellar. He looked right and left to make sure no one was coming, then deemed the time correct to open the door. Sherlock stared down at the long dark stairs. To avoid any attention, he didn't press the light switch and started walking down the stairs slowly. Sherlock still couldn't quite believe the others had just left him like this. It wasn't as if he'd actually betrayed any of them, he'd simply observed and figured out who'd done it. Also, of all five, Sherlock was the only innocent one, so why would they attempt to make him the only one not to get out. Sherlock hated all of them for just having skated over him like that, but hated himself even more for having just had a tiny little bit of hope that they had forgiven him (even if he'd done nothing wrong). It all hurt him more than it should have.

Still, he couldn't let that distract him.

Although he wasn't wearing a bracelet, he still needed to be out in sixteen minutes, as that would be the latest time the security would realize that a prison break-out was being attempted. Once he finally arrived at the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock couldn't even see his hand in the dark. With his good arm, he felt his way along the wall and finally found a light switch. A long hallway with little storage cellars on each side lit up in front of him. He swallowed and slowly made his way through it. The cameras were watching Sherlock's every step so he tried to look as casual as possible doing it, not showing his face or the fact that his hand was injured to any of them. He looked around and carefully memorized which cellar held what, for no good reason: canned food, fruit and vegetable, dairy products...

Sherlock hadn't seen most of these in any of his meals up to then and shook his head when he discovered how much better fed the staff of Pentonville must've been. Over the thirtieth cellar, if he counted correctly, was a digital clock reading 14:16.

He had another fourteen minutes to get to the delivery food trucks; he could easily make it. Sherlock bounded in the air out of joy at the thought that he'd finally get out, but suddenly he realized his mistake. It wasn't fourteen minutes. It was _four._

With some of the schedules Davison had been able to get from the archives, he'd managed to find out when the delivery trucks left. The next one was at twenty past two. Suddenly, Sherlock didn't care about the cameras, and took advantage of the fact that he was in a chip free zone. He started running as fast as his legs could carry him, past cellars thirty-eight and thirty-nine. So that his hand wouldn't bang against his body while running, he held it to his chest for support. That, however, caused agonizing pain. Sherlock hissed but kept running. At the end of the corridor was a doorway. It had no door, and Sherlock could just barely see outside from far behind. He checked the time again; it was now 14:18 and probably about a half a minute. Just in that moment, extremely loud sirens went off and the lights on the high ceiling started flashing red. A voice came out of nowhere.

"Attention: security breach. Prisoner 4-4-2-9-7-5 missing, name: Holmes, Sherlock. Repeat, prisoner 4-4-2-9-7-5 missing, name: Holmes, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes widened. Somehow they'd found out he was missing. He continued running: the doorway was getting closer and closer. Then he noticed that, oh yes, it had a door. The metal door slowly lowered down trying to lock Sherlock back in the jail. He then completely forgot his hand, stretched basically every muscle in his body and started running as fast as he possibly could to the door. He was maybe only a hundred feet away now, but the gap between the door and the floor was now less than three feet. At about a twenty-foot distance he was beginning to be out of breath, and Sherlock knew he wouldn't be able to make it. But suddenly, he got a rush of adrenaline and Sherlock jumped to the side and sat down on the floor at the same time. He lay down his head just above the ground and slid down all the way to the door. The gap had shrunk to a foot and Sherlock needed to stretch his feet so they fit and put his head to the side. The door almost closed over his eyes, and then there was a brief moment of silence. Sherlock opened his eyes and found himself outside.


	11. Freedom At Last

It took a while for his brain to actually compute what had happened. For a moment or two he was just sitting on the pavement looking around confused. Then suddenly, a wave of happiness over came him. He jumped up and landed on his feet screaming "Yippee!" for the first time in his life. Sherlock couldn't have been smiling more widely when he stretched out his arms and turned around three times, looking up. He still couldn't quite grasp the truth. He was outside! He was free! He was no longer a prisoner! He was...

Sherlock stopped spinning and frowned when he realized what he was.

He was a wanted criminal.

Sherlock turned his head around frantically. The delivery trucks had to be somewhere along the long grey wall he'd once thought was impenetrable. He couldn't see them anywhere.

_Come on... They have to be here somewhere_

Sherlock snuck along the wall thinking he'd find the garage eventually. All of the sudden, he heard an engine start behind him.

"Damn it", he whispered, turned around and started running towards the sound. The garage was integrated into the wall, which was why Sherlock hadn't seen it. He could see the delivery truck starting to peek out, and his pace quickened to the same speed as just before the door had closed. While the truck was turning he was still able to catch up well. The truck was now completely out of the wall, but needed to use all the parking space to get into a position parallel to the street . Sherlock kept on running, his goal still clearly visible to him. The truck was now basically in the correct position. He had to catch it before it reached full speed. He was ten feet away now. At three feet the truck started moving. Just as it drove off, Sherlock jumped into the air and grabbed hold of a bar attached to the side of the truck with both hands. He was now hanging onto the truck with no leg support. He looked around, and realized his hands were slipping. Then Sherlock finally noticed the small metal bar, which held the license plate. Sherlock let himself slide down the bar he was holding and carefully placed himself on it. He wouldn't be able to stand without continuingly holding on, but that would be enough for now.

As the truck curved onto the highway Sherlock pressed himself against its back as flat as possible so that as few people as possible would notice him. This would be a short ride anyways. After a couple minutes Sherlock felt a sting and for the first time since he was out he remembered that he had a broken wrist. It probably wouldn't be a helpful hand if he were to lose his balance, but to keep it, it was sufficient. Sherlock needed some time to think about step two of his plan. Somehow, the improbability of step one actually working had stopped him from even thinking about it. But here he was, fresh out of Pentonville Prison, hanging onto the back of a delivery truck, planless. Sherlock had to chuckle at the thought. He then became serious again, but somehow he was just too overwhelmed and thrilled to think. Every time he started to he'd just come up with:

"I am actually out of prison!"

Sherlock couldn't help but smile at his situation. He didn't mind the foul smell of deisel stinging his nose, the obnoxious sound of car drivers angrily beeping their horns at each other, the break lights, the gigantic puffs of black, ugly smoke coming from the factories beside the highway, just because it didn't remind him in any way of Pentonville. However unappreciated all those things were for him, he certainly wasn't bored now.

Sherlock peeked his head around the side of the truck to have an idea were he was. There was a sign saying that the exit to central London was a mile away. Sherlock gasped. He doubted the truck was headed there. Quickly he weighed out his options. There must've been a camera somewhere near the garage, so the guards had to know he was here. That meant it was safer to get off, as then they'd only be following the truck and not him. But _that,_ however, meant he'd have to jump off the truck onto the highway. Even Sherlock knew how dangerous that was, but after this whole day, he decided that he would do it. He wasn't letting one lane between the exit and the truck get in the way of his freedom now. Sherlock looked back and found that the exit was coming up very soon. Now he had to make his way to the left edge of the vehicle, so that he'd be on the highway the least possible amount of time, but that involved letting go of the bar for a second. Sherlock slowly brought his feet to the middle of the truck. He was completely crooked as he was still holding on. Now all he had to do was grab the bar on the other side of the truck. Quickly he closed his eyes and let go, swinging his arms to the other side and grabbing hold of the opposite bar. Sherlock sighed and pulled himself to the left end. The exit was now in sight and Sherlock got ready to leap. He took a few deep breaths, waited for the truck to pass where the actual car exit was, and jumped.

Sherlock managed to fly over half the lane and crashed down onto the road, landing on his side. He groaned, but then he remembered where he was. His eyes ripped open and immediately he started rolling across the lane and into the emergency area. Sherlock quickly got up and jumped over the fence. He then followed the exit lane from the side until he finally was on the main road. Sherlock was exhausted and started walking slowly. Finally he was in a part of London he knew and he could relax a tiny bit. Without really thinking about where to go, he just randomly wondered around the city when suddenly he saw a street name.

He at first didn't give it any attention, but then he looked back and realization crept over him.

He was on Baker Street.


	12. A Very Problematic Return

Sherlock smiled and then ran the entire way to 221B. After six months, he was finally standing in front of that door again. Sherlock carefully placed his hand on the knob and was happy to find it was unlocked. Taking two steps at a time, he ran up the stairs.

_Six Seconds Later_

John had been rereading Sherlock's file for the thousandth time, still looking for a small piece of evidence he'd missed, when the door slammed open. Quickly he turned his head away from the folder and instinctively got up. For a moment, he simply stared at who was standing in the doorway, no explanation for his friend's presence making it to his mind. He took a step closer taking in every detail of the taller man's face. The other did the same.

Some time passed, neither of the two was sure how long.

"Sherlock!" John finally managed and ran into his arms.

"John..." Sherlock replied embracing the hug. Somehow, though the last time they'd been apart was six times as long, this had been a far worse period for both of them, and that made the reunion all the more joyful and relieving.

John pulled himself back and was eager to hear Sherlock's story.

"How were you released? Did they finally find some evidence proving your innocence?"

"John."

"No, they're too stupid for that... How did you get your hands on any proof?" he asked curiously.

"John, I-"

"Well, that's not important now, the importance is that you aren't a criminal anymore, right?" John laughed.

"John!"

Suddenly, John noticed Sherlock's serious expression, and when he took another good look, he also noticed Sherlock was dressed as one of the guards at Pentonville Prison. Why would he be… Oh.

Finally, John understood what had happened.

"I escaped", Sherlock explained.

"How?" John asked quietly.

"With a lot of difficulty."

"I don't doubt that..." John said looking down. Of course he was happy that his best friend was back, but he wasn't that he'd had to break out of prison.

"They'll be looking for me", Sherlock said.

"Where?"

"Everywhere. I'm Britain's most wanted now. They'll search the world for me if they have to."

Sherlock started pacing up and down the living room of the flat weighing his options out carefully. He pursed his lips, as only one option seemed possible. Sherlock turned back to face John, staring at him seriously.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"I have to leave here."

"What do you mean by 'here'?" John asked cautiously, "London?"

"No", he took one step towards John, "I have to leave England."

John swallowed harshly and thought about what he said for a bit.

"Well I'm going with you."

"No", Sherlock replied.

"Sherlock, I'm coming along with you, and that's final," John calmly stated.

"No, John!"

"You just came back after six months. I haven't even talked to you in four! And now you just come marching in and want to leave five seconds later? I'm coming with you."

"It's going to be dangerous, John."

"And that's why you need somebody to come with you."

"John... I'll never be able to forgive myself if something were to happen to you."

John crossed his arms stubbornly.

"And I'm doing this because the feeling's mutual."

Sherlock pressed his lips together and sighed.

"Fine..."

John let his arms fall and smiled. "Thank you, Sherlock."

"You're welcome... Now, we need to be out of here in half an hour. Right after they search wherever that truck was headed, two-two-one-B will be their next stop. If we're not out by then, it's game over anyways. Get everything you want to take along together in one small bag. Don't take anything heavy and only things that are _really_ important, understood? I'll wait here." Sherlock sat down on the sofa and just wanted to lie down for a couple minutes. John stared at him for a second.

"Sherlock?"

"What?" Sherlock mumbled, opening his eyes a tiny bit.

"Aren't you going to change first?"

Sherlock blinked in confusion but then glanced down at his guard outfit.

"Oh. Right." Sherlock pushed himself up but fell back down. John then decided to help him up. He took Sherlock by his left hand and pulled him up. A loud scream filled 221B.

The moment John had started to pull, Sherlock's hand had stiffened and he'd let out a weep. John let go once he heard it and checked Sherlock over.

"What's wrong?" he asked worriedly.

"Nothing..." Sherlock said while holding his left hand with his right one. He breathed in heavily, closely looking at it.

"Let me see that", John replied holding one arm out helpfully. Sherlock hesitated, then gave in and showed his wrist to him. John examined it carefully with furrowed eyebrows.

"How did this happen?" he asked.

"S-Someone hammered on it."

"Hammered on it?!" John exclaimed.

"Long story..." John sighed.

"Well, you can tell me later, right now you definitely need a cast though."

"No, no time for that."

"Sherlock!"

"John, they won't take _that_ long to conclude I'm not there. We have to be out here as soon as we possibly can, and putting a cast on does not support that goal!" Sherlock said clearly irritated.

"Okay, all right. But at the very least let me put a bandage on it"

"Fine..."

John went into the kitchen and got a bandage from his first aid kit, he then returned and carefully unrolled it around Sherlock's entire forearm.

While doing so, Sherlock closed his eyes tightly, letting out small winces.

"There, that should do it."

"Thank you."

John smiled. "My pleasure."

"Now, go get everything ready, I'll wait here."

John was about to open his mouth to say some unclever comeback like 'you could help too' or 'it's not that difficult' but then closed it and smiled that the person he always did that to, was back. John nodded, got on his feet and quickly went up the stairs to his room. After throwing a couple things around and knocking a lot of stuff over he found a medium-sized red and black backpack. In it, he only put in one extra jumper, a torch and some matches. He then swung it over one shoulder and did a gallop-like skip down the stairs, carrying it to the kitchen. John looked around the cupboard, searching for some kind of food that would be good to have along. Soon, some leftover crackers, a half-litre thermos bottle filled with water and a dry loaf of bread were added to his supplies. John leaned on the kitchen counter, mumbling everything he took and thinking about anything he could possibly need. He couldn't consider himself very knowledgeable at 'what to take along when running away from the British government'. John decided to go back over to Sherlock and see if he remembered anything else.

Sherlock seemed to be deeply sleeping when John entered the living room. He was just lying on the sofa, now in his usual black suit with a white shirt under it, trying to wear off his exhaustion a little. John very carefully sat back down on the sofa beside him so he wouldn't wake him, but the moment he touched the leather Sherlock's eyes ripped open in alarm. A couple seconds later though, he remembered where he was and managed to sit up without using his left arm.

"You okay?" John asked concerned.

"Yes, what is it?" Sherlock answered annoyed that he'd been disturbed.

"How exactly are we going to leave England? By plane?"

"Yes, brilliant idea, John," he replied, sarcasm clearly in his tone. John nodded.

"What's the problem with a plane?"

"Oh nothing! I mean, all we have to do is check-in using an ID card which quite clearly has the words 'Sherlock' and 'Holmes' written all over it. You know what else has those words written all over it? The wanted list."

John gazed him for a moment. Sherlock had said that comment to irritate him, to make him feel stupid, which he did, but most of all, he noticed just a tiny bit of what Sherlock was really feeling behind his mask of emotions: Hurt. Or... no, it wasn't hurt, it was more like upset. Sherlock was truly unhappy about his situation (who wouldn't be?), but he seemed to care deeply that the world saw him as a fraud. John closed his mouth and thought a little.

"Sorry... Stupid question."

"That's all right..."

"So, how are we travelling then?"

"You need to rent a car, we're driving to Cornwall."

"I thought we were leaving England?" John asked, confused. Had he misunderstood or did Sherlock just not consider Cornwall part of the United Kingdom?

"It's too late in the afternoon for that. We'll go there and leave early in the morning."

"Okay, good plan."

There was a long pause.

"I think I packed everything, we can leave now."

Sherlock nodded and got up. He walked into the kitchen carefully looking at the backpack at his feet.

"No gun then?"

"One step ahead of you", John replied while carefully putting his firearm so it wouldn't be visible in the pocket of his coat, which was hanging near the door. Sherlock smiled and looked back down at the backpack. John walked back over to him and reached for the two zippers on each side of the backpack. Suddenly Sherlock looked around as if he'd remembered something.

"Wait!" he said putting his hand in inside the bag so John wouldn't close it.

"What?" he said, looking up.

"I need something."

Sherlock ran off to his room and reached for the guard costume that was neatly folded on the drawer. He threw the shirt to the side and picked up the trousers roughly reaching into its pocket and pulled out the small grey notebook he'd put in there after changing into the guard outfit. He then grabbed a pen of the same colour as the one he had had in prison from his drawer. After that Sherlock hurried back to the door, stopping and giving his bed, which he hadn't used in six months, one last glance. He then walked back into the kitchen of the flat and put it into the backpack. John looked at it curiously.

"What's that?" he asked, picking it up and looking at the cover but not opening it.

Sherlock remembered the last time that happened. His instincts and his need for privacy kicked in and he pulled it out of John's arm with a growl. He defensively held it back and glared at John with a furious gaze.

John looked at him but didn't seem to be disappointed or anything. He just was a little put off track by Sherlock's sudden aggressiveness. Suddenly Sherlock remembered the difference between when Parkinson had taken this and when John had: Sherlock trusted John with all his life, he hadn't been bullied by him, John was his friend; his _best_ friend. Sherlock looked down ashamed of his animal-like reaction and held the notebook out to him.

"Sorry..." John looked up at him in surprise.

"So, can I...?" he asked cautiously while pointing at the book.

Sherlock nodded and didn't look up from the ground. He listened to the sound of the pages carefully being turned and to John's slow and steady breaths, which were completely unlike his own at the moment. Sherlock closed his eyes waiting for some kind of mockery for all his childish sketches. He imagined him telling him off something like "Didn't think someone as brilliant as you wasted their time with such useless things", just as a small payback to him. Instead, all he heard was,

"You do have a talent for this, don't you?" Sherlock looked up in astonishment.

"You really think so?"

John looked up and smiled. "Of course I do." He lowered his head again and turned a couple more pages. Suddenly his eyebrows knitted together as he carefully examined a page.

"Sherlock, what's this?" he asked holding it up so Sherlock could clearly see his own messy handwriting written full of 'I AM GUILTY's. Sherlock pursed his lips and walked up closer to it.

"That's over" he said coldly and ripped out the twenty next pages which all had the same inscription. John didn't reply and closed the book while Sherlock put the pages in the bin. He then took the book from Sherlock's hands and carefully placed it inside the red and black backpack. John closed the backpack and carried it by the handle over to the front door.

"All right then, we're all ready to go."

Sherlock nodded and felt his coat, which was hanging on a hook and had been brought back to 221B after the arrest. The wool didn't quite feel unfamiliar, but it seemed odd to him. After some hesitation he put it on, then the blue scarf that was hanging under it (Sherlock didn't ask why those two things were still hanging at the entrance of the flat, and not stowed away in some box) and finally he buttoned up his coat. Sherlock first felt awkward but then he realized how much he had missed his usual clothing and did a small spin of gladness about so much falling back into place. A chuckle broke his small moment of bliss; Sherlock stopped and turned around seeing John, wearing his coat, with the backpack on one shoulder, looking at him in amusement. Sherlock blushed and then his whole expression fell back into its usual poker face again.

"So", he coughed a little to clear his throat, "Let's go." And with that he opened the door and walked downstairs, John still grinning as he followed.


	13. Newquai

_Three And A Half Hours Later_

Sherlock had been explaining to John every detail of what he'd been up to. John had never interrupted once, except for questions to clarify but this one was just too much:

"Really?! You couldn't come up with any better name than John Watson?" John asked annoyed. Sherlock kept his eyes on the road embarrassed as his hands tightened around the hired car's steering wheel.

"It was the heat of the moment! I needed a realistic sounding name!"

"And John Watson is 'realistic'?"

Sherlock smiled playfully at him. For the past two and a half hours they'd been driving west, after having found a small black market car rental place which didn't ask for a licence when they gave out their cars.

"I still can't believe you chose it. Of all names!"

"Okay you can calm down now!"

John sighed. "Fine, what happened next."

"Well, for starters he believed me."

"Wow."

"See what I mean by realistic?"

John nodded.

"Anyway, he left and with the card from the guard we'd knocked out I managed to get into the computer and deactivate the other four bracelets. The only problem was it was only for thirty minutes.", Sherlock paused. Telling this story felt odd, this all had happened that same afternoon and yet it felt so long ago.

"I then decided to quickly go back to the workshop but..." His words were stuck in his throat. Sherlock wasn't able to finish that sentence.

"But what, Sherlock?" John asked turning his head and leaning over so he could see Sherlock's face from the front. Sherlock bit his lip and didn't react.

"Sherlock?"

"They... they weren't there anymore." Sherlock hated himself for just showing a hint of emotion in that sentence.

"What do you mean, they weren't there?"

"I presume that their bracelets somehow reacted to their deactivation and they made a run for it before I got back."

"You mean they just abandoned you? After you planned everything for them?!"

"It would seem so", Sherlock replied, seemingly neutral about everything.

"Tell me if you see one of them, I have one or two things to say to them."

Sherlock smirked for a second but only on the side that John could see. John leaned back in his chair and watched the cars and the scenery go by. He still couldn't believe the position he was in. He couldn't believe Sherlock was back by his side. He couldn't believe they were doing this. For a couple minutes neither of them spoke.

"And then what happened?"

"I went on with the plan without them. I just went downstairs and got out just before the doors closed. Then I hopped onto the back of a delivery truck, hopped off and came straight to the flat."

John nodded. He had to say, his main emotion now was disgust. How dare they leave his friend like that after already having shattered his wrist in that way? Sherlock had trusted them! But he hadn't got any trust in return. The thought angered John so he tried to distract himself with more conversation.

"So are you going to tell me anything about the plan?"

"Why don't you just go along with it as it goes?"

"Oh god... You don't have a plan at all, do you?"

"Well...", Sherlock looked for the correct words, "I have sort of a plan."

"Uh-huh", John replied unconvinced.

"John, I'll know what to do when I have to do it, okay?"

"Okay... How much longer?", John asked out of curiosity.

"We're about half way there."

"Great..." John mumbled while closing his eyes. Sherlock turned his head to him after a while when he noticed that John hadn't said a word in a pretty long time. He smiled and turned it back after seeing that John had fallen lightly asleep.

"Good night, John", he whispered and concentrated on the highway again.

_Two Hours Later_

"John! Wake up! We're almost there!"

John's eyes opened lazily and he was at first confused as to where he was. Oh right, he was in a black market car somewhere in Cornwall, with his prison-runaway best friend.

Oh the stories he'd be able to tell.

John had slipped forwards so he was even smaller than Sherlock now. Using his feet he pushed himself up. John squeezed his eyes shut and reached for his lower back as a pain went through it.

"That's what you get for falling asleep."

John chuckled and turned his head to Sherlock. "What time is it?" he asked, rubbing his eyes.

"A little after ten at night," Sherlock said while not looking back to the area being lit up by the headlights of the car.

"Aren't you tired?" John asked.

"No", Sherlock said blankly.

"You should've rested a little."

"I'm fine, John. Really!" Sherlock said now looking back at him.

"Okay, fine, I believe you." John thought a little longer then added:

"How about we switch next time?" he joked. Sherlock laughed lightly.

"Good idea!" Both of them knew very well John couldn't drive.

"So where are we?" John asked, looking out the window. They were passing a group of at least five or six wind turbines and he could see tall cliffs and ocean surrounding it. It had been a while since he'd been to the beach.

"Newquai, Cornwall", Sherlock replied.

"And where are we going?"

"There's a nice little inn with a view on a small bay just outside Newquai. We'll stay there."

"And how do you know this place?"

Sherlock smirked mysteriously. "Long story."

John nodded, as he understood that Sherlock obviously didn't want to tell him what he meant. Not much later they curved into the driveway of a large house. John got out as soon as the car came to a start and waited for Sherlock to come around from the other side. That surprisingly took longer than he thought but just as he was going to check what happened, Sherlock took him by the arm and pulled him down some small stone steps. He was carrying the backpack over his right shoulder and letting it hang loosely. They were now in a small garden, which had a small path going down and then right over to a terrace and another one making its way to the front porch and dining room of the building. A hedge surrounded the garden and there were a couple chairs on the terrace. The house itself had a lot of windows. They could clearly see about four tables in the dining room but no one was there.

John and Sherlock entered and made their way to the small reception, which was basically just a high table. No one was minding the desk so Sherlock rang the small bell on it. After a couple minutes, a petite woman walked out wearing a beige printed t-shirt and jeans. She didn't seem very old, maybe early thirties, and she looked pretty surprised about the two new guests who had arrived at such a late hour.

"Can I help you with anything?" she asked politely while putting her hair back behind her ear to look less messy.

"Yes, we'd like a room for two, please" said Sherlock, looking down at her.

"Um, do you have a reservation?" she asked a little uncomfortably.

"No, that's not a problem, right?" he asked innocently, but John was pretty sure he was planning something though he had no idea what.

"Well..." she opened a book and looked through it for a second, "I'm sorry but we're full. I can tell you where there's another hotel if you like?"

Sherlock looked at her for a second and seemed like he almost wanted to turn around and leave but instead he just said, "Surely nobody wants to sleep in room three?" John looked up confused as to what he meant.

She cleared her throat. "Well, do you want to?"

"Yes please, that'd be nice."

"Well.. okay...", answered the receptionist who was also the hostess awkwardly, "But it only has one bed."

"That's fine."

"I see." Her eyes flashed from Sherlock to John who understood immediately what was going on. He pointed to himself then to Sherlock and mouthed "Not a couple!", to her.

She led them uncertainly up some stairs and to the door number three and handed Sherlock the keys.

"Well here you go, breakfast is from eight to ten thirty, you have the choice of a full English breakfast or a large smoothie -"

"We won't be attending breakfast, we have to leave before that", Sherlock interrupted.

"Oh, when?" the hostess asked.

"Around five thirty."

"Five thirty?!" John yelled.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked, turning his head back at John. Instead of replying John just glared at him.

"Well, I could make sure there's something out for you two before you leave?" she suggested.

"Yes, that'd be great, thank you," John said smiling.

She smiled back at him.

"Can I have your name please and could you pay?" she said turning her head back to Sherlock.

"John Watson. How much is it?" The hostess was confused as to why the smaller man who was behind the dark haired one, seemed to roll his eyes and slap himself when the other said his name.

"It's fifty pounds per night so a hundred, please."

"Here", Sherlock pulled out his wallet and gave her one hundred and ten, "Keep the rest."

"Thank you, sir. Good night." She then went back downstairs and that was the last they saw of her. Both John and Sherlock waited a little in front of the door. Some seconds later, Sherlock deemed the time correct and placed the key in the slot. He turned it and the door to room three cracked open. Sherlock pushed it back and made space to let John walk in first. John took a couple steps in and carefully examined the room. There was one low bed on the right and a table with a chair on the left. Beside him was a small closet and over the table was a very large window with view of the sea. It was a little small but quite nice and comfortable little room. John couldn't understand what could possibly be the problem with it. He took a step over to the bed then turned back to face Sherlock who was still standing in the doorway.

"So what are we going to do about the one bed? Shall we switch?"

Sherlock didn't respond as he made his way to the table and took off the backpack. He sat down on the chair and took the notebook out. He tried to use the least amount of space possible as he started writing something down in it. John took that as a yes so he took off his shoes and coat and let himself fall on the spring mattress.

"What's the problem with this room anyways?" he asked looking around.

"Fourteen years back", Sherlock started explaining without looking up, "Someone got murdered while sleeping in this very room. A forty-year-old woman got stabbed and destroyed the reputation of a brand new inn. Since then they managed to build it up again but just this room is never used."

"'Kay..." That did freak John out just a little but he was too tired to really care. He lay back in the bed and closed his eyes.

"But when are we going to switch?" he asked a little later.

"We're not."

"For god's sake, you need to sleep!"

"I need to think, John!"

"Sherlock..." John sighed.

"I'm not sleeping tonight, and that's final."

"Fine, do whatever you like..." John grumbled.

"Besides," Sherlock added, "She died sleeping in that bed."

"Great..." John pulled the pillow to his head and tried to blink away the image of a woman being stabbed exactly where he was. After some tossing and turning he finally found a comfortable position in the relatively small bed and dozed off.

Sherlock put down the notebook and closed his eyes. So they'd have to escape through all of Europe, it was decided. He sighed when he realized how this afternoon, while running through that hallway, the door closing on him, his adrenaline at its peak, he'd thought it was finally over: All the misery that had started to build up six months ago when he was forced into prison would finally leave, and everything could finally go back to normal. Since Sherlock had returned eight months before sitting in room three of the Sea View hotel in Newquai, Cornwall, he had not one moment of real peace. Even before being arrested, there was still the stress of the trial, the journalists, the rumours, not one moment since then had he just been able to stand still during a walk through London and just enjoy it. Not that he was really the kind of person to do that, but not having the right to do it irritated him. And now, as he turned his head and watched the tide slowly rise, the waves going back and forth in the bay a couple miles away from him, he realized that his troubles had only just begun.

Sherlock listened to the quiet murmuring of the Atlantic Ocean splashing against the very tip of what was British soil. Concentrating on the noise helped clear his mind of all his thoughts. His eyes closed and his breaths became slower and deeper... Sherlock's eyes popped open just before he fell asleep. Now wasn't the time to sleep. Now was the time to call up an old ally.


	14. The Smuggler Boat

_Six Hours Later_

For the second time in what seemed like much too short a period, John was pulled out of his light sleep by a familiar voice shouting at him: "John! Wake up!"

His eyes opened. He was lying on his side right at the edge of the bed. John rolled to the right so that he would be on his back again. Sherlock was looking down at him, already wearing his coat and scarf and with the bag on both his shoulders this time.

John pushed himself up with his elbows and blinked a little so he wouldn't see as blurry in the dark. His mind was a little mess of things so he tried to come up with all the correct facts:

It was about 5 in the morning of the twenty-fourth of April 2016.

He was lying in a bed a woman had been murdered in, in a hotel in Cornwall.

Sherlock and he were now going to leave England.

Neither of them knew whether they would ever return.

Honestly neither of them wanted to know.

When John had tried to prove Sherlock's innocence, he would do little more than wake up in the morning, go through a ton of files finding basically nothing useful, answer the few questions that the even fewer journalists who supported his cause asked, eat and then go back to bed. Though he had to admit he probably would've found something at some point and gotten Sherlock out of there, he preferred this. First of all, because he didn't know how much longer Sherlock would've taken it or how much longer he would've needed to find the evidence. Second of all, although all of this was an extremely delicate and dangerous situation, the rush of it still fulfilled him more than any other profession ever could.

John scratched his head and swung his legs over the bed. He slipped his feet in his shoes and kneeled over to tie them. After getting up he got his jacket that he'd just thrown in the closet and put it on. Sherlock bit his lip as he watched him impatiently and took off the moment John's coat was completely zipped up. John followed him downstairs. Sherlock was standing at the reception, staring at a newspaper. It was placed under two apples, a loaf of bread and a kind note from the hostess. John smiled at her friendliness, but was puzzled as Sherlock almost mesmerizingly took it. He turned a couple pages and started reading:

PRISON BREAKOUT FAILED/SUCCEEDED

Yesterday afternoon, four men were caught trying to break out of Pentonville Prison. George P., Mike D., Adam T. and Steven H. were just outside the gates of Pentonville with somehow disengaged chip-bracelets. Not long after being caught, they revealed that they had a fifth accomplice in their escape, who in fact was the sole creator of this master plan. None other than Sherlock Holmes, the most notorious criminal mind in British history next to Jack the Ripper. He even managed to remove his bracelet completely and, as one would expect from such an expert when it comes to breaking and entering, to escape, leaving his allies behind. According to security cameras he was dressed as a guard and was apparently injured on his left hand, which is where his bracelet was.

Sherlock's eyes flashed over to the dark blue bandage tightly wrapped around his entire forearm. He'd completely forgotten about it. It had hurt him so much it was like a numb part of his body now. He pursed his lips and resumed his reading:

If you see a man who looks like this (see picture below), call the police immediately and do not believe anything he says. Keep in mind: this man is a dangerous criminal, even if he seems to mean you no harm.

Sherlock looked up with moist eyes and angrily threw the newspaper back on the table. John took it and quickly flew over the article then neatly placed it back.

"Well they got caught. At least that's a good thing, right?" Sherlock didn't look at him when he answered.

"Don't be stupid, of course it's a good thing, John."

John saw how upset he was, and for the first time, he felt that he was able to deduce something about Sherlock as well.

He took a step towards Sherlock and placed an arm on his shoulder.

"You know what I think?" John asked softly.

"Not much," Sherlock bitterly replied. John sighed.

"I think that _I _think it's a good thing. But I think you aren't sure. Am I right?"

Sherlock turned his head to him, shocked that John had figured that out. He trembled a little as he stared down at John, feeling weaker -physically and mentally- by the second.

"All they wanted was to get out..." was all Sherlock managed to say. John's eyebrows knitted together. Maybe Sherlock had lost some of his hard shell for a while.

"But they're real criminals, Sherlock. You aren't. There's a difference."

"I know but..." Sherlock's whole body was shaking now. "You haven't been in there, John. Every second drives you more insane, every night you sleep in there makes you more tired, every time you wake up and find yourself not in your own bed, you lose more hope, every time you return to your room after meals, you feel it's smaller than before, every time you look in the mirror, you think you aged by ten years, every time you bite into their tasteless food, every time you put on the boring grey clothes they force you to wear, every time you see a car drive by from behind the gates you miss your life even more than before. Every single time..." he choked out,

"And the worst part is: every single one of them could get out, but they're all too scared, too paralyzed, too lazy to do it. So if for once you find four people who do want to work for it, who are willing to take the risk of being caught just to regain their freedom... You don't care about their pasts. You just want them to make it."

John stared at him in disbelief.

"They mercilessly broke your wrist, for god's sake!" he yelled as loudly as he possibly could without waking anybody.

"Yes, they did. And that was definitely the worst pain in my life but as much as it hurt, it saved me. I wouldn't be out here if it weren't for Parkinson."

"Sherlock! They didn't care about you! They just used you! Don't get sentimental now."

"But how could I not," he held back the tears again, "when they are simply the people who had every reason to beat me, up yet decided against it."

"Sherlock," John took him by the shoulders and leaned forward, "They deserved it, okay?" Sherlock nodded and John let go and walked towards the door. Sherlock wouldn't bring it up again but to him he was still right. John didn't understand, couldn't understand. He hadn't been there. To him, they would always be the people who could've but didn't. Criminal or not. They could've but didn't.

They sat silently in the car as Sherlock drove down the winding road heading for the bay.

"Where are we even going to take this boat, there isn't any port here."

"Well... we aren't exactly going to go onto a 'legal' boat either."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock only smirked in reply. John closed his eyes and let put a deep breath.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked.

"Well I'm kind of worried about what you meant by 'not exactly legal boat'."

"Oh..."

"Are you planning on never telling me where we're going the entire trip or do I have to pass some kind of test first?"

"Just be patient."

Sherlock parked the car right next to a small beach, which was surrounded by cliffs on two sides. He waited a moment then stepped out and took the bag with him. John swung the door open as well making his way over to his partner who was putting the backpack on.

"Okay, tell me where I should go", John said. Sherlock didn't say anything but started walking towards the beach. They couldn't go very far as the tides were at their peak but it was still enough that John could already feel sand fill his shoes. A fresh salty breeze came from the ocean and stung his face and he looked up at the dark blue sky. There was a tiny bit of orange coming from the east as the sun began to rise and a couple purple-ish clouds floated above them. John stood still capturing the beautiful image, trying to hold onto it, trying not to let go. He wanted everything to stay calm like it was this early April morning. Later in the day things would become complicated and dangerous but now, it was only him and Sherlock by the shores of the Atlantic.

"John! Keep up!" Sherlock yelled with a frustrated tone. John snapped out of his trance and searched the beach for Sherlock. He was already a hundred feet or so further. John swore under his breath and jogged along to catch up, which, with Sherlock's pace, took a surprisingly long time.

Once he was next to him again he dared ask another question:

"What about the rental car?"

"What about it?"

"Well, aren't we supposed to bring it back?"

"Of course we are." John cocked an eyebrow and gave him a confused look. Sherlock glared at him then added:

"That doesn't mean we will."

"Ah... Won't that cause us even more problems than we already have?"

"Is that even physically possible?"

"I see your point... All right, I guess you're right."

"Of course I'm right, John."

Sherlock seemed particularly unhappy. Maybe it was because of their sort-of argument earlier on so John decided not to support any fighting between them. After maybe fifteen minutes or so of walking, by squinting he could see a pretty small cargo ship that wasn't docked at any port but people were unloading things, which were impossible to identify from such distance on it.

"Ah, there's our transport", said Sherlock with a hint of satisfaction.

"What are they importing?"

"Oh the usual, they're headed for the Netherlands now which is actually just where I wanted to go-"

"The usual?" John asked, even more flabbergasted than before.

Sherlock kept on walking.

"Oh you know, cocaine, marijuana, maybe LSD..." John stood still not sure if he'd heard correctly.

"What?!" Sherlock turned around in surprise.

"What is it?"

"Cocaine? Marijuana? Maybe LSD?!"

"Oh," Sherlock seemed to suddenly understand what had happened, "Did I forget to mention the ship's cargo is drugs?"

"Um... Yes, you did."

"Oh, sorry. It's not a problem, is it?"

"No, not at all," John said with a nearly undetectable hint of sarcasm. Sherlock turned back around and started walking towards the ship again. John sighed and ran back to his side.

"You do know, how worrying it is that you know the exact times of when these boats leave."

"Oh relax. I called last night to ask. They changed the schedule ages ago."

"Meaning that you still remember the original schedule and their phone number."

Sherlock's eyes looked at him madly.

"I'm clean, okay?" he said through gritted teeth.

"I don't doubt that, Sherlock. I'm just worried about the fact that you forget that the earth goes round the sun but you remember the phone number of Britain's main drug exporter."

"That's not fair! You knowing that the earth goes round the sun isn't going to get you off of British soil unnoticed."

John couldn't come up with a good comeback to that. He tilted his head, thinking up unwitty lines, then gave up.

"And they won't mind bringing a wanted criminal over the border?"

"Oh, John, you're so adorable", Sherlock chuckled "They_ are_ criminals."

"Last time you made a pact with criminals, that happened." John pointed at Sherlock's left hand. Sherlock balled it into a fist, as he remembered it again. The pain came unexpectedly; it only ever did when he remembered it. Every time it did he felt Parkinson's hammer hitting it again. Sherlock flinched as the word crossed his mind:

_Psychosomatic_

While thinking that another word came to his mind:

_Weak_

"But those were criminals that I had had arrested. They went to prison because of me. Also none of these ones are murderers", he finally stated.

"Okay fine. But another worrying fact: you didn't have them arrested."

"Can you please get off my case?!" Sherlock yelled as loudly as was possible. He seemed deeply frustrated at John's comments but he couldn't stay mad at him. John wasn't trying to irritate him. He was just worried. It was perfectly understandable. He took a couple deep breaths to calm down.

"Sorry... I'm just a little frustrated right now."

"No, I'm sorry. It wasn't my place to judge", John said just as apologetically.

"Well, technically it was. You _are_ a doctor."

"Oh... shut up."

They both giggled a little, then made their way to the boat. The sun was just beginning to rise and was tainting the sky a bright pink. There was a man sitting on a plastic chair set in front of the boat. He looked up and seemed to instantly recognize Sherlock.

"Ah Sherlock! There you are! Now, why exactly do you want to go to Holland now?"

Sherlock seemed to recognize him as well and shook his hands.

"Hello, Ronaldo. Long story, this is John Watson." He gestured John.

"John... Welcome aboard!" John smiled awkwardly as he looked at Ronaldo's unshaven, dirty face and his watery, bloodshot eyes. He didn't need to be a doctor to read the signs; being one just disgusted him more, but he knew it was unwise to show it. John felt Ronaldo's hand shiver and it was clearly sweaty yet still he could feel something like dust. After a handshake that seemed to take too long, John pulled his hand up to his face and saw that a small film of white powder covered it.

"Nice to meet you..." he said while he slowly wiped his hand on his coat.

_Great._

Now his coat was covered in cocaine or something else. The man sniffled and turned around, walking towards the bridge to the top of the boat.

"Come with me, I'll show you your room." John was uncertain whether he should go up there or not but Sherlock pulled him onto the boat before letting him decide. Once on the deck Ronaldo opened a door and they walked through a hallway. After passing five doors Ronaldo opened the next on the right-hand side.

"And here you are" he waved his arm toward the room in excitement.

"Thank you, Ronaldo", Sherlock said politely but John could only smile and nod. Ronaldo went back outside to check if they could start their journey and John and Sherlock were left alone in the small room with two small mattresses.

"Well, we better make ourselves at home. This'll take us about three days", Sherlock said while taking off the backpack and putting it on one of the beds.

"Three days?!", John exclaimed.

"Yes, not really the fastest ship ever."

"No, not really." John sat down on the other bed and looked at the bare walls of the small cell. A foul smell stung his nose but Sherlock didn't seem bothered in any way. John smiled at his sort-of relaxedness (though he wasn't sure if it was because for three days he didn't have to worry about much, or if it was that the nearby drugs had made their ways into his system) sat against the wall, and simply listened to the murmuring of the waves as the boat started its course.


	15. Amsterdam

_Three Days Later_

The boat docked in Zandvoort An See at eight twenty-two pm on the twenty-seventh of April. Zandvoort was a town on the shore of the Netherlands, a half-hour train ride away from Amsterdam. Its beach was long and bright and after three days at sea, Sherlock and John -now carrying the backpack- were relieved to be on soil again (but for John it was mostly to not have to be surrounded by drugs anymore). The two of them thanked Ronaldo for taking them along and started walking down the beach and onto the road. The road itself was quite sandy still, and the sidewalk was a reddish colour. Sherlock put his hand in his pockets as they slowly walked down the road.

"How do we know that they don't know about you here?" John asked as something important occurred to him.

"They don't."

"How do you know?"

"We passed local newspapers of the last three days. No headlines," Sherlock explained calmly.

"You didn't search through the entire newspaper!" John pointed out.

"I don't need to."

"You sure?"

"One hundred per cent."

"Good."

They quietly made their way to the train station, which was quite close to the beach. They bought their tickets and went through the turnstile, putting the ticket in a slot and getting it back on the other side: just like the London Underground., The two of them waited beside the tracks for ten minutes without saying a word, until a train finally arrived. Sherlock hopped on as soon as it stopped but John, being a bit more respectful, waited for the two people to get off and helped a mother get her baby carriage onto the train.

"Dank u wel," she said, which John assumed meant thanks. He nodded as a response and headed for the lower level of the train. Sherlock was already in a seat, staring out the window when John finally caught up to him. He felt that he'd been having a hard time keeping up with Sherlock for a while now.

John groaned a little as he sat down. The train waited in Zandvoort for a while, as it was the final stop of the route. At some point a Dutch voice greeted the staff and John didn't catch much except "Harlem" and "Amsterdam" and he was beginning to worry that he'd missed some important information. He was relieved to hear a different voice explaining the exact same thing, but in English. The train departed at about ten to nine at night and both of them just stared out the window avoiding any kind of conversation.

_Half An Hour Later_

The train arrived at Amsterdam Zuid and as quickly as he'd gotten on, Sherlock sprung up from his seat the moment he heard the unpleasant squeaking of the brakes. John was ready this time and managed to stay close behind him as he walked down the steps to the under-track passage. After passing the gates again Sherlock seemed to look around, wondering what to do.

"So", John asked, "Where now?"

"I don-... Oh yes I do."

"Hmm?"

"I know where to go."

"Ah, where?"

"Shouldn't be far. We can walk."

"Why not just get a tram ticket?"

"Too complicated, and so is hiring a bike."

"Fine, you win, Sherlock", John said, rolling his eyes.

Soon they were strolling along a brick path beside one of Amsterdam's many canals. Sherlock had picked a longer route to wherever they were going than necessary but it was less noisy and crowded. The tall trees next to the bike stands and on the other side the slim, tall buildings no two of which looked the same gave the city its own personal charm. It was calmer than London, more original, more... bike-y.

"So..." Sherlock seemed a little embarrassed to want to talk. John looked up at him in curiosity.

"What is it?"

"Err... We're in Amsterdam."

"Yes?" John was confused as to what Sherlock was getting at..

"And you _do_ know what's legal in Amsterdam?" Now he wasn't anymore.

"No."

"Oh co-", Sherlock started pleading.

"No, Sherlock!" John replied stubbornly. They turned left and crossed a bridge.

"Please?"

"I thought you said you were clean?" John asked crossing his arms.

"I am if it's legal."

"No, Sherlock, and that's final." But Sherlock didn't seem to want to give up; he seemed to be searching for other things that could get John to let him do it.

"I'll be your best friend?"

John stared at him for a moment to make sure that wasn't a joke.

"You don't know how to do this, do you?"

"Um... No, not really."

"Thought so, and that's still a no," he said, starting to walk away faster. He walked over to the canal and stared at it to wear off his frustration.

"John! They didn't even have any decent coffee there!" Sherlock pleaded, not letting go as he caught up to John.

"Okay, fine you win!" John said, turning around, and lifted his arms up. Sherlock looked at him in surprise.

"I do?"

"Well, no."

"What?"

"You are not getting any marijuana", John unzipped his coat and reached for the inside pocket, "but, just this once, here." He pulled out a small metal cigarette box and handed it to Sherlock.

Sherlock glanced down at them in confusion.

"But... Why do you have them?"

"Because I always have them when I'm with you." John smiled amused as Sherlock carefully took the box.

"Why's that?" He opened it; It contained four cigarettes and a blue plastic lighter. Sherlock chose one cigarette at random and pulled it and the lighter out. He then closed the box and was just about to put it in his own coat pocket when John's hand got in the way.

"Ah, ah, ah. No, you're giving that back to me."

Sherlock stared at him then handed it back. He then put the cigarette in his mouth and lit it, using his hand to shield it from the wind. Once it started softly glowing, he inhaled, took it out and then exhaled.

"Because I know how you are", John finally answered.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, sometimes you need them, and sometimes you think you do. I have them so that when you think you do, you can't find them and when you do, I can give them to you."

Sherlock nodded as he sucked in more air from the cigarette.

"You never let me have them", he pointed out.

"Because you never need them."

"Then why did you give them to me now?"

"To get you off my back for the next three to five years."

Sherlock turned from the canal and stared at one of the high street lanterns.

"If we're still alive then..." John placed his hand on his shoulder.

"Don't talk like that, Sherlock."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't like to think about things like that."

"Doesn't mean you shouldn't." Sherlock started walking again and they passed a number of closed antique stores.

"Still..." The cigarette burnt out and Sherlock threw it into the canal.

_Twenty Minutes Later_

"Thank you, Mister Eric", the receptionist of the Novotel said, with an accent that was clearly not Dutch, while handing Sherlock the key card. He smiled at her and took it. He made his way through the large lobby to the lift, John following him closely.

"So, Mister Eric, new pseudonym?"

"I thought you didn't like the last."

"I don't", John said while watching Sherlock press the button. The elevator door opened and they both stepped in. John pushed the button with the three on it and the door closed.

Neither of them noticed the receptionist who had followed the two of them to the lifts with distrustful eyes.

"So, how do you know this place, then?" he asked curiously. Sherlock was watching the red lights showing that they were passing the first floor at that moment.

"Twenty-three years ago someone got poisoned while having a drink at the overly expensive restaurant bar."

The door opened and Sherlock quickly made his way to room 316. He swiped the card through, suddenly feeling like it was the security room in Pentonville Prison again. Sherlock blinked the image away and pushed the door open. The room was relatively big. They had an en-suite bathroom, a desk with a TV on it and two beds. Sherlock walked over to the window, which took up most of the wall. He drew the curtains and looked down to the still busy road. Bikes, trams and cars flashed by and for some reason it irritated him to watch them. Maybe it was that he hated them being so carefree. Maybe he envied them for their normality. Or maybe it was just the fact that none of them had friends who were hiding their cigarettes.

John put the bag down on the rug, took off his coat and hung it on the hooks to the right of the door. Sherlock went back to the entry way and put his coat and scarf away as well.

"If you want to shower, do it now. We don't know when our next chance will be", Sherlock said in a monotone, as he took his notebook out the bag and headed for the bed closer to the window.

"Oh okay", John got the other jumper out of the backpack and entered the bathroom. He was happy he could finally scrub the last bits of drug off himself.

The noise of the water running started, but Sherlock didn't really notice it. He was busy studying the chemical formulas he'd written down in Pentonville, making sure they were correct and not just a result of his insanity. It wasn't quite easy to read as the light in the room was more yellow than white. He crossed a couple formulas through and circled in the definitely correct ones. He'd need to try them out once they got home.

_If_ they got home, his mind corrected.

_No, I will make it. I have to make it._

He swallowed and turned all the pages back, looking at the childish drawings. He paused looking at a tree he'd drawn sometime in December. All of this seemed so far away from him now, and yet he was still stuck with basically the same problem: he was guilty of crimes he hadn't committed. Turning a couple more pages Sherlock found the place where he'd ripped out the ones that had been forever marked with "I AM GUILTY". Sherlock took a took a breath and shuddered It really, honestly frightened him that one place could alter his thoughts so much. Actually make him believe he was to blame. Again he reached the place where all the formulas were, and then the escape taking its rough shape. Sherlock placed his hand on the next pages (except those that were still unwritten) and ruthlessly ripped them out. His escape plans would in no way help him prove his innocence. He set the notebook on the desk and walked over to the bin next to the bathroom. The sound of rushing water had stopped, so John would probably come out soon enough. Sherlock held the twenty pages out over the garbage can and coldly let go. He then turned around, not looking back, and walked back to the bed. Then suddenly he ran back and pulled out the page that was on the bottom of the pile from the bin.

He stared down at his drawing of cell 221 on wing D, carefully folded it twice and placed it in the middle of the notebook.

While in prison, thinking of "221C" as home was the hardest thing he could imagine doing, but now it was hard not to.

"Ow!" Sherlock retracted his left arm, thinking something had fallen on it. He stared at the blue bandage for a second, but there wasn't anything that had fallen on it. It was just his imaginary hammer again.

Why was this affecting him so much?

There was a knock on the door and Sherlock got up, still holding his left hand with his right one. He felt another sting shoot through it.

_Pull yourself together! It's just a broken wrist!_

Sherlock let his arm hang down his body casually and he tried not to show the pain it was causing him. Just as he placed his hand on the knob and wanted to turn it, the person on the other end knocked three more times, and each time twice as hardthe last. Sherlock felt a shiver go down his spine.

"Let us in! We know you're in there. This'll save us a lot of time!" a voice with a quite British accent came from the other side. Sherlock stopped breathing for a second. He let go of the knob and stepped to the side.

"I said let us in! It's either that or we let ourselves in."

Sherlock didn't know whether he did or not, but at least his right hand thought that this battle was definitely lost and he reached for the knob again, turned it to the left, and opened the door. Three men were standing opposite him holding guns against him.

He didn't know what any of it meant, none of it made any sense to him. Nothing fit together. The man who was standing closest to him was grinning as if he'd mischievously managed to make his little sister close her eyes and hold out her hand.

"Hiding's over, Mister Holmes", he said, gesturing behind him with his gun. Sherlock glared at it, his mind finally grasping what had happened; he'd lost.

A thousand thoughts zapped through his mind in a matter of seconds, most of them questions: Who were these people? How could they have found John and him? Hadn't they been careful? When had they made the mistake? Who had recognized them?

None of the questions were answered as one so simple, yet so terrifying, reminder kept being repeated:

_You're going back to Pentonville._

He could feel the blood pulsing through his head and his lip quivered a tiny bit at the thought. He couldn't go back to that. He just couldn't. But it was over, he'd messed up. Why did he even think of escaping jail anyways? What good did it do him?

Sherlock's head started to hurt as all his thoughts came in at once, fighting for the space his deductions about the three men in front of him were taking up, negotiating for some more room in his long-term memory. His head hurt, it hurt so badly, and he just wanted it to stop.

But it would never stop. And soon enough, he knew that and he even feared it, it would turn into "I AM GUILTY" again.

Sherlock had been staring at the other man in disbelief for several seconds now, no reply being uttered by his lips.

"Now", the man said, "Hands up."

Sherlock mechanically lifted his arms up and dug his fingers into his curls.

"Come along with me. I'm getting you back into prison." And then the man collapsed to the ground.


	16. An Inconvenient Drive

A familiar black sleeve surrounded the arm that was stretched out in front of Sherlock. He was too shocked to move, so he let his eyes travel along the arm. At the end the hand was shaped into a fist with some traces of blood on it. He looked down and saw the man who had been aiming his gun at Sherlock unconscious, blood running down his forehead. He looked back to the man whose arm that was and found himself staring at John. John looked back at him, and they exchanged millions of words with one gaze.

"Now!", Sherlock yelled and punched the next man in the stomach. The men leaned forward and coughed and just then John picked up the gun from the unconscious man's hands and just as he ducked down, Sherlock hit him with the back of the gun. He fell to the ground as well. Sherlock kicked the last of them in the shins and John hit him with the firearm. All three of them were now out cold.

"Take their arms!" Sherlock ordered while looking around the hallways of the hotel to check if anyone else had come. It would seem not. John reached for the men's guns and threw them into the backpack. He took it by the strap and followed Sherlock down the corridor. Sherlock had already reached the elevator. He waited impatiently for it to arrive but when John finally caught up he decided they should take the stairs. John rolled his eyes as Sherlock ran to the fire door and pulled it open. He took a breath then followed him in. Sherlock was already one floor lower when he entered the staircase.

_Nineteen Seconds Later_

The guests in the Novotel lobby were mildly surprised to see a curly haired man wearing a long, dark coat scramble between the sofas and coffee tables and run out of the room. Even more so when a blond, clearly smaller man, presumably the other's partner, putting a red and black backpack on while running, did the same a couple seconds later. And as normal, ordinary people did, they looked at each other in astonishment, shrugged and resumed their activities, not thinking much of it.

Sherlock was frantically looking from right to left along the dark street when John tripped out of the hotel.

"So what do we do now?"

"Get out of here. As quick as possible."

"Yes, but _how_?!"

"I don't-" Just then Sherlock saw an empty car with its inside-lights on, on the other end of the bridge. Some idiot had probably just forgotten to lock it. He could tell by the model, that it was one that didn't require a key to start; it was one of those fancy 'start button' cars.

"Get in that car", he shouted pointing at the red mini-van. They both sprinted over the canal in record time and tugged the two front doors open. After pushing themselves in, they closed the doors and Sherlock pressed the start button. The car started to loudly rumble and the lights switched off. They were now both in the dark. Sherlock reached for the steering wheel but only caught hold of thin air.

"John."

"What?" John turned around to look at Sherlock who was staring at something in front of him.

"Look in front of you."

John cautiously turned his head and found the steering wheel on the left side, his side, of the car.

_Dammit._

Sherlock turned around and saw that the policemen or whatever they were had regained consciousness and were leaving the hotel now. Time was running short, he turned back to John.

"Drive!" John stared at him incredulously. He couldn't be serious, right?

"I said _drive_!" Sherlock yelled after John gave no reaction. The policemen were already half way across the bridge.

"What?" John finally replied, "You know I can't!"

"That's not my problem now, we don't have any time to switch."

"But-"

"Drive!" Sherlock roared three times louder than both times before. The fastest was five footsteps away at most. Instinctively, John's foot hit one of the two pedals, which by chance wasn't the brake. The two of them got pushed back into their seats as the car accelerated to thirty miles per hour. John's eyes were tightly shut for a couple seconds but at some point he managed to open them. When he did, he noticed in horror that the car was headed right for one of the many bike posts of Amsterdam.

"Right turn", Sherlock stated calmly and placed John's hands, which were nervously grasping his own lap, on the wheel. John looked back at him, nodded, gulped and turned the wheel and hit the brake at the same time. The car screeched as it did an almost ninety-degree turn. John turned it right again until it was back in parallel with the road. It was going along the canal for a good mile so John managed to relax for a moment. Suddenly his situation occurred to him again.

"Sherlock, you know I can't drive this."

"Just keep your hands on the wheel, your eyes on the street, your feet away from the brakes unless I say so. We just need to work with this until they've definitely lost our trace."

"I can't drive without having taken any lessons!"

"John, you have to trust me. This is an automatic car, I'll tell you when to turn the blinkers on, all you have to do is man the wheel and the pedals. I'll guide you through this, I promise."

John weighed out his options. At least if he caused an accident and killed Sherlock and him they'd be out of this situation.

"Okay, fine!" From the corner of his eye he could see Sherlock's lips curving into a smile.

"Wait, am I not supposed to look in the mirrors once in a minute or something?"

"You leave that to me." He turned his head in every direction checking for any passing cars or street signs. The last thing they wanted was to become arrested for disrespect of the traffic rules. Lastly he looked right behind him.

"Okay, John, don't panic, but they've got a car as well and they're right behind us."

"You know, when someone says don't panic, especially before something like that, they tend to panic more" John said with an irritated tone. His hands clutched the steering wheel even more tightly than before, making sure it never even moved an inch to the side.

"Calm down! I'll guide you to the motorway. You can go a little faster than that, you know?"

"The motorway?! As in hundreds of cars going at a hundred an hour?!" John exclaimed frightfully while pushing the pedal a little so the car would speed up.

"No, the motorway as in, no intersections, no sharp turns and higher speed limits. Careful, you're going to have to turn left now. Don't forget the blinkers."

John pressed his lips together as he looked for the blinker switch with his thumb and carefully turned the steering wheel to the side.

"Fine."

The entire ride was pretty unstable. It was an irregular alternation of driving fast and slowly, Sherlock and John rocking forwards with every harsh brake John made, and backwards with every time Sherlock encouraged him to go faster again. They only spoke when Sherlock was instructing John on what to do. Driving asked great concentration of him but it was surprisingly easier than he thought, though that was probably because Sherlock was doing most of it actually. Sherlock kept his eye on every mirror and kept checking to see how far behind them the police were. They were pretty far but John and Sherlock couldn't manage to lose them as they drove along the silent roads of nocturnal Amsterdam. When John finally felt confident enough he managed to ask a question:

"Why aren't they going any faster?"

"I'm not sure, they aren't trying to catch any attention either, that's for certain."

"But why-"

"Less talking, more driving. Turn right now."

John fell silent as he turned the blinker on.

"No! Not that!" John looked down frantically and saw that he'd put on the left blinker. Quickly, he switched to the right and turned.

After quite a while, it almost became enjoyable. Well, it would've been if they weren't being chased right in that moment. They eventually got onto the motorway and Sherlock realized how screwed they really were.

Panic overtook him. Again he was holding tightly onto the handle, his palms starting to sweat. What if he messed this up? What if he caused an accident? What if Sherlock and he wouldn't be the only ones to die from it?

"Sherlock, I've changed my mind. I can't do this." He turned the wheel, wanting to go into the emergency lane. Sherlock grabbed hold of the wheel and pushed it back. The car did an odd S curve into the passing lane and both Sherlock and John got pushed back into their seats by G force.

"It's too late for that, John. We just need to lose them now. Speed up!"

"But what if-"

"John!" John looked back at him and hesitantly pressed the pedal. They started passing a couple cars and Sherlock looked back again.

"Still behind us?" John asked.

"Unfortunately, yes, and closing in on us. You're twenty under the limit!"

"That can't possibly be true."

"Metric system, John! You know that thing the rest of Europe does aside from putting driver seats on the left!"

"What?" John was much too focused on the road to understand what Sherlock had just said. Sherlock took a deep breath.

"You're going twenty kilometres per hour under the limit."

"_Oh_."

"Now speed _up_! They're only three cars behind us!"

"Where are we going anyway?"

"Germany. No speed limits on the highway."

"What if they stop us at the border?"

"They don't do that within EU countries anymore. Don't go so close to that car!" John hit the brakes lightly.

"'Kay, but if there are unlimited speed limits, can't they catch up to us then?"

"We have to lose them before we get into Germany."

"And how far is that?"

Sherlock paused while checking his literal "mind map" and calculating the distance.

"About an hour."

John nodded, his hands uncomfortably shifting their position on the wheel.

"So we have one hour to lose the British government", he said to himself just as a reminder.

"Stop being obvious, John, and concentrate on the traffic."

"Okay, okay!" He took a deep breath and tried to stay on the left lane. The van slowly caught up to some cars and they steadily made their way to the border.

"Why aren't they trying to catch us?" John asked after a little time.

"I think they just want to keep us in sight. After all, we can't stay in the car forever. Just keep driving as well as this and they won't notice that you actually can't."

"What happens if they notice? I get arrested too?" John joked turning to Sherlock.

"Eyes on the road!", Sherlock yelled. John had never seen him this... strict. It was actually terrifying so he quickly turned his head back.

"If they notice, they'll try to do some odd manoeuvre. One that any experienced driver could get out of but a non-experienced one..." Sherlock trailed off as he looked in every mirror.

"John," he said in a tone John couldn't place.

"What?"

"They've decided that they've waited too long."

"What are you talking about?"

"They're speeding up and right behind us!" John's face whitened.

"Oh! What do I do? What do I do?"

"Hit the bloody gas pedal!" After a millisecond of hesitation, John's foot fiercly pushed the pedal fiercly and the car accelerated with a groan. Drivers honked at him angrily for accidentally bringing the car dangerously close to the white line separating the two lanes.

"Steady...", Sherlock whispered as John gingerly got the car back in parallel with the road.

John pressed the pedal down even more than before and the meter passed 120 kilometres per hour, which was the limit. More cars honked but John stayed at that speed, confident that with Sherlock helping nothing could go wrong. Sherlock looked back in all the mirrors.

"Okay, they aren't getting any closer for now. Just stay at that speed and we should be fi-", Sherlock let out something like a shriek and bent over. John couldn't see what was happening so he turned his head just a tiny little bit. From the corner of his eye he noticed Sherlock holding his left wrist, the one he'd broken, his eyes tightly shut. It took a bit of time for John's brain to get it: He was on his own now.

His eyes widened as he realized what happened, luckily a voice in his head yelled at him what to do:

"Eyes on the road, you idiot!" The voice sounded surprisingly similar to Sherlock's. John assumed it was because he wouldn't trust his own if it were to give him driving instructions.

John turned his head back and concentrated on the edges of the road, which seem to be much closer together now. He could feel his breathing quickening, his pulse racing and sweat dripping down his forehead as panic started taking over him. John released his foot from the gas pedal and the car immediately started slowing down. He was just about to curve back into the emergency lane, but to do that he needed to look to the right, where Sherlock was sitting.

Sherlock was murmuring something to himself, his right hand grasping his sleeve so tightly that John wondered if any blood was reaching his left-hand fingers.

_No. You have to get him out of here._

John nodded at the other voice in his mind and pressed the pedal again. The car picked up speed and John focused on what Sherlock had told him:

_Just keep your hands on the wheel, your eyes on the street, your feet away from the brakes unless I say so. We just need to work with this until they've definitely lost our trace._

That wasn't helpful. He needed to keep an eye on _everything_ now! John decided it might be safer to go into the right lane for now, just until Sherlock snapped out of whatever was happening to him at the moment.

_Blinkers, don't forget the blinkers!_

John obeyed Sherlock's voice in his mind and looked around for the switch. That familiar ticking noise started and he slowly turned the wheel until they curved into the right lane. The man in the blue Mercedes behind them honked angrily presumably because John cut his path.

"Sorry..." John muttered. He carefully listened to his "Sherlock-guide" and let nothing distract them.

_Speed up. Hold that. You're too far left. Stay steady. Relax. There, the sign says Germany, you need to stay in this lane until we pass the pre-selections._

After not too long, he didn't even find it that hard anymore. What he had to do was becoming an instinct already on his first day of driving.

_Don't forget the mirrors!_

John looked in the rearview mirror and saw nothing but the still-annoyed Mercedes driver. In the left mirror he saw nothing, but on the right, John could clearly see the silver Golf, driven by those men they'd made acquaintance with at the hotel. The car was in the left lane passing the Mercedes and was presumably planning to block their way. John bit his lip, pressed the gas pedal, turned on the blinkers and practically ripped the wheel to the left, stopping the Golf from being able to get ahead or behind anyone.

"Sherlock, now would be a really good time for you to snap out of it. I have him trapped, but only as long as the Mercedes stays there, and I don't know how to get out of this," he said while elbowing Sherlock who hadn't moved an inch.

There was something that felt like a person, which touched his upper left arm, but he didn't really take note of it. The hammer was hitting him again and again, not releasing his arm. He was sure that Davison was holding his wrist in position just so he could get that bloody chip bracelet off. Wait, didn't that already happen? He didn't know, focus was impossible. The pain was far too grave for that. He just wanted it to stop, but every time he wished for that it just became worse and worse.

A tear escaped Sherlock's eye as he clutched his hand even more. The act of doing so however, just worsened his situation, as all it did was crush his already broken bone. Why wasn't it leaving? Why wasn't any of it ever getting any better? Why couldn't he understand how an injury he'd completely forgotten just suddenly paralysed him with agony?

"Sherlock!" His eyes opened. That was his name. That was his _name_. He looked around and suddenly he remembered his situation. Remembered his real problem, remembered what he was supposed to be doing. In the heat of the moment, his concentration rose and the pain disappeared. John was driving a car _alone_ and didn't seem to be really having an easy time at the moment.

"Yes, sorry, what?"

"Look behind us." John motioned behind him with his head. Sherlock turned his head and saw the Golf stuck between them, the Mercedes and the rest of the cars behind it.

"We need to lose them quickly or they'll figure out where we're going," John stated, "Any ideas?"

"No, I don't..." He looked around trying to think lf something. Right then he saw that the motorway was actually about to do a big U-turn. There were now trees so he could clearly see the street on the other side. Right there, there were Dutch policemen checking the speeds.

"I've got it!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"What do we do?" asked John hoping but not really believing there was a way out of this. Sherlock turned around to face him, placing one hand on his right shoulder.

"Now, I know this is going to sound insane, but you need to go as fast as possible, and then brake exactly when I tell you to."

"But what about the limits?"

"Dammit, John! There's no time!"

"But-"

"_John_!"

John bit his lip looking back at his friend and hit the acceleration pedal with all the strength in his right leg. The motor roared as the car practically bounded ahead and fixed John and Sherlock into their seats. John held onto the wheel more tightly than ever before, on no account letting it turn an inch too far. As they curved into the U-turn, John took his eyes off the road for a second and looked at the small needle of the speedometer, steadily rising and reaching almost two hundred kilometres per hour. His instincts all shouted at him to hit the other pedal, but he knew that Sherlock was probably smarter than his instincts.

"Okay, keep that speed, going faster might not give us enough time," Sherlock explained out of breath while turning around to check what their pursuers were up to.

"Yes! They're speeding up too," he whispered and turned back around. The curve grew sharper and sharper, until the speed they were going at forced them to their lefts. Just then, the entire car shook harshly and suddenly turned left to the edge of the road. John got it back straight just as the car they had just scraped honked at them for twenty seconds straight. Sweat poured down John's face but he didn't dare lift his arm to wipe it off.

"Okay, on three, John." Sherlock bent over to see as far as possible as the wide curve came to an end.

"One..." He held his breath and already placed his other foot over the brake. In the distance he saw the policemen and miraculously understood Sherlock's plan.

"Two..." Time froze for John in that moment. He took in his entire surroundings; Sherlock, in the seat to his right, the pursuers about three hundred feet behind them by now, the grey tone of the concrete, the flatness of the Netherlands, the couple of stars he could see in the sky. He smiled at all these things, like a quick last "Goodbye" just in case this didn't work out. Maybe it was a "Hello". He wasn't quite sure. He looked back at the region of the road illuminated by the headlights and concentrated again.

"Three!"

A fraction of a second later, the car made an awful screeching noise and it had never been harder to control. John could feel his seatbelt cutting through his neck. He tried to push himself back from the wheel, but with the speed they were losing, that was pretty much impossible. The meter went down all the way to one hundred and twenty kilometres an hour in five seconds flat.

"Okay! Now stay under the limit!"

They drove on for what seemed like hours, though it was only about ten seconds. The car passed the police without a problem and Sherlock looked back as John still struggled to control the vehicle.

In the shrinking distance he could see that the agents hadn't slowed down and were almost immediately stopped by the policemen.

_They'll need to explain a lot_, Sherlock thought with a smile as he turned back.

"We did it, John! We lost them!" John let out a sigh of relief and his fingers finally loosened.

"And I have to say you're probably a better driver than most," Sherlock joked. John started making an odd hysterical laugh and Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows.

"Ha ha ha ha," he said sarcastically, "Now switch bloody seats with me!"


	17. Berlin

_One And A Half Hours Later_

After changing spots at the next gas station, Sherlock driving just under the limit for an hour to make sure they'd completely lost their trace for now, passing the border and having a quick coffee break at a diner on the edge of the motorway, John found himself staring out the right window of the car. As it was one in the morning the road was empty, and as they were in Germany now, Sherlock could go _very _fast without having to worry about other cars. John turned his head, watching Sherlock's focused looked carefully watching the road. He finally felt confortable, talking about what had happened before:

"So, how did they know we were in Amsterdam? You said that we didn't make any headlines."

"The left side! How could I forget that?! Stupid!" Sherlock said hitting the wheel harshly. Suddenly he turned to John for a second before looking at the road again. "I'm sorry, what did you just say?"

John stared at him puzzled for a while. "Um, I said that-"

"You were asking why they knew where we were," Sherlock finished the sentence.

"Yes, you're quite off right now, you know?" John pointed out.

"Problem with that?" He didn't leave any time for John to answer though:"Anyway, I'm suspecting the receptionist."

"What? Why her?"

"She's clearly from England, but she seems to also have a deep connection to it."

"So?"

"So, she pays attention to British news." John nodded.

"Have you worked out why those guys were undercover anyway? I mean it seems a little stupid."

"Safety," Sherlock replied while slowly turning the wheel, "They don't want the whole world to know that someone broke out of prison and fled from Britain. Those chasers were probably the British secret service that were based in Amsterdam came here. The Netherlands wouldn't be too happy that England has agents here, don't you think?"

"Yeah, but if it's in the English papers, surely someone will have put it in the others?"

"I never said we didn't make the papers. I said we didn't make the headlines."

"Isn't that dangerous? I mean, couldn't someone recognize us?"

"Oh John, the number of people who actually read more than the headlines these days is small enough for us not to need to worry."

"Sherlock, you're a fugitive criminal! You damn well should worry!"

Sherlock didn't reply.

"Okay, fine. Where exactly are we going anyways?"

"Berlin."

"Why Berlin?"

"It's a good distance away from here and I happen to know a hostel there."

"You do?"

"Thirty-two years back the 'Jugendherberge' was broken into. The burglar's intention was just to take the people's valuables but he happened to stumble upon a woman's jewellery box containing real sapphires. He hasn't been caught to this day."

"And you know this because...?"

"But the question is, where to next? It's too risky to keep using this car. They probably have the license plate."

"Sherlock?"

"We'll have to leave it in Berlin. There'll probably be a train that can get out us out of here first thing in the morning."

"Sherlock!"

"What is it?!" Sherlock yelled. He couldn't possibly be more irritated by John interrupting his train of thought.

"Sorry, but by the time we get to Berlin it'll be-"

"I don't care!" Sherlock yelled in fury.

"All right, all right," John mumbled and looked back out the window.

_Four Hours Later_

Of course there was no point in staying at the hostel when they finally arrived in Berlin at five in the morning. John had slept a little in the car but Sherlock had driven straight through, not closing his eyes for longer than a blink. Instead he drove to some random spot in the town so it wouldn't be obvious, once the police caught back up to them, that they'd taken the train . The two of them strolled down the quiet roads of the German capital, occasionally passing reminders of the Berlin Wall.

"So," John finally spoke. Sherlock turned his head away from the closed shops they were passing by and gave his partner his attention.

"Where to next?"

"Somewhere far. Somewhere not too complicated to get to."

"So you don't know yet," John clarified.

"I'll know soon. I need to see which trains we have as options first though."

John nodded as they continued their stroll.

"Oh look," said Sherlock after a little while. He pointed at a building up ahead. John's gaze followed his friend's finger and let it rest on the hostel they had planned on staying on at first.

"Happy we didn't stay there, doesn't seem very comfortable."

"Oh no, not at all. There would've been a fight about who had to sleep on the bunk bed. But the food is apparently quite decent."

"Okay..." John furrowed his eyebrows, wondering where Sherlock had got all this information.

"Ah, the train station, here we are."

They approached a tall glass building with huge letters on it forming "Berlin Bahnhof". Sherlock smiled to himself as he pushed the see-through door and stepped through, not waiting for John to enter. Of course there were a few people here and there but for the most part the gigantic hall was empty. Immediately, Sherlock made his way to the board to check where the next trains were going. John stepped up behind him and watched him go through every train carefully, mumbling something to himself. He pointed his finger at the top and John watched as it slowly travelled down the chart. It came to a stop about half-way through.

"Prague! That's it!", Sherlock exclaimed a little more loudly than needed.

"Why Prague?"

"Do you have a better suggestion?" John closed his mouth again. He looked at the chart then checked the time: 5:25

"It's only leaving in three and a half hours though."

"Well you've seen the size of this place. Surely there must be a cafe here."

"No, no coffee. You've been up all night driving. You need to sleep."

"But-"

"No buts, Sherlock. This is one of the many reasons that I came along with you. You don't know how to take care of yourself."

"I do _know_, I just don't bother most of the time."

John laughed a little at that. The two of them turned around and slowly walked away from the board. The entire train station was a gigantic shopping centre, like most are. All the small boutiques were closed though as it was still too early.

"We'll need tickets," John said.

"I know." Of course Sherlock knew. How could he think that he didn't?

"How do we get them then?" The tall man looked around and pointed at a machine in the corner.

"I suggest there."

"You can also use it for international travel?"

"In our modern day, most likely."

He made his way to the machine with quick paces and quickly typed in his destination on the touch screen. John peeked over Sherlock's shoulder then turned around and let his eyes flash around the entire station.

"Try not to show your face to the cameras," Sherlock mumbled without taking his glance off the screen. John looked to the nearest corner of the wall and stared right at the security camera for longer than he should've then turned back to the screen. It was just asking for payment. Sherlock stretched his arm out backwards.

"Card." John rolled his eyes as he searched his pocket for his wallet. He pulled the bankcard and placed it in his friend's hand.

"Don't you have one?"

"Of course I do. They would've blocked it though." Sherlock placed it in the slot and pushed in John's PIN:

46 92 13

"Wait a minute-"

"You should really get a new PIN, you know?" Sherlock pointed out as the machine stuck the card back out and printed the tickets. He took it and gave it back to John who grumbled as he put it back into the slot in his wallet.

Sherlock bent over to get the tickets and handed one to his companion.

"Thanks. Don't they require any ID anymore for international travel?"

"Oh no, they still do, I just happened to overhear a conversation between two prisoners on how to hack these things," Sherlock explained with a smirk. John smiled back and they made their way to a bench.

"So now what do we do?" asked John.

"Now, we wait."


	18. Prague

_Nine Hours Later_

John was quite worried about how few words Sherlock had uttered. He'd been drawing or writing something in his notebook for hours. It was wondrous how he still found space in that thing, as it was almost full. Every single patch of white could have a shade of blue for him. About half-way through the train ride he had his daily best in talking when the pen, which already had barely any ink when he first got it, finally ran out. He then got annoyed and walked through four wagons just to get to the restaurant wagon and ask for a new one. All post-Berlin-Prague-train drawings would be a dark black. John had even managed to get him to sleep for an hour or two but he still definitely needed more than that.

The two of them were now walking down the beautiful road in Prague next to the river but neither of them could really appreciate it: too much to think about it. Sherlock seemed to be calculating the number of drops in the Moldau or something, as much as he seemed to be concentrating.

They walked for a good ten minutes, passing a lot of houses with red roofs when suddenly Sherlock turned to cross the road and went into a small alley. John had been looking at one of the interesting bridges, so by the time he looked back Sherlock was already on the other side of the somewhat busy street. John rolled his eyes and caught up.

_Forty-Five Minutes Later_

The door to room 465 at the Holiday Inn, Prague swung open and a tall man wearing a blue trench coat let his partner pass through.

"And so, the murderer fled through the window and jumped from balcony to balcony until they got to the bottom of the hotel. Any more questions?"

Yeah, one more," said John looking around the room. There was a large window, which gave them a view of the colourful roofs of Prague. The carpet was green and the en-suite bathroom was to their right. There was a table in front of one of the two beds next to the window.

John turned back to Sherlock.

"Why the hell do you know so many hotels where people were either murdered or robbed?"

Sherlock smiled as he took off his coat and scarf. He walked over to the table and sat down on the chair looking outside.

"I did my Master's degree on hotel break-ins and murders in Europe."

John mouthed a lot of question words but he ended up asking:

"How on earth did you come up with that subject?"

"Thought you were supposed to do it on something you were interested in."

"Yeah, I get the murder and break-in part, I could've easily guessed that myself! I was wondering about the hotel part."

"Oh..." Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Mummy was still trying to force me into our family business. I thought perhaps that'd calm her down for a while."

"Let me get this straight," John took a step closer and took the backpack off his shoulders, placing it on the bed closer to the door.

"_You _have a family business?"

"Not anymore."

John raised his eyebrows. "Why not?"

"Well have you ever seen me or Mycroft mending a reception table?"

"Stupid question, sorry."

"No, it's fine... God, I hated that place", Sherlock said bitterly.

"What was the problem with it?"

"It was all so clean! Our mother scrubbed everything twice a day."

"And what's the problem with clean, may I ask?"

"Nothing to deduce, of course. All evidence is simply washed away." John giggled a little. He walked over to the window and watched the cloudy sky for a minute. He then sat down next to Sherlock and seriously looked at him.

"Sherlock, what is the plan? How do we continue this?"

"We just keep running until they finally stop looking so hard. Then I can go search for the evidence to prove I'm not guilty."

"I thought you said that they wouldn't stop looking."

"Everyone has their limits."

"Including you," John pointed out. Sherlock stared at him with a tightly shut mouth and didn't say anything. They both looked around the room.

"But... What if they catch us and we can't prove your innocence, Sherlock?" Sherlock kept staring into space though John was absolutely sure he'd heard him perfectly well.

"Sherlock?", he said a little loudly. His friend didn't react. John shrugged and got up to have a shower. As he closed the door behind him three words escaped Sherlock's lips:

"I don't know."

He pursed his lips and pulled out John's phone from his own pocket (he'd confiscated it right at the begin of their trip) and searched for options of where to go the next day. He checked the date: It was the twenty-eighth of April 2016. Had it really only been five days since his escape? It sure felt like much more. Anyway, now he had to find out which place was the best to go to next. He looked at all the trains leaving Prague the next day, all seeming to have just as many advantages as disadvantages:

Paris, Belgrade, Cologne, Vienna, Lyon, Zurich, Budapest... Choosing the right one was vital. If they chose one where he couldn't find the next connection, one where the agents happened to be, it would all be over. They wouldn't necessarily be as lucky as they were in Amsterdam the next time. Then suddenly he got an idea, remembering the last call he made in Cornwall. Quickly he dialled a number into the phone, ignoring the huge bill he was creating.

_Beep... Beep... Beep_

"Ronaldo, you'll be in Paris tomorrow, right? I need you to get a car in front of the Eiffel tower at precisely sixteen-hundred and thirty hours, got it?"


	19. Drawings and Coffee

_Six Hours Later_

At nine at night, after eating from the fantastic room service of the hotel, the two of them were already in bed. It was clear that neither of them had slept much in the last couple of days and Sherlock clarified that they should always rest the moment they could, as they never knew when they'd suddenly have to run again. The only thing though was that Sherlock could be very hypocritical when it came to resting. John had managed to force him to bed after almost half an hour of arguing on how much sleep was needed. To make sure he really did sleep he also took his phone back from him till the morning. He left him with his notebook, unsure about how Sherlock would react to having it taken away. Still, that would hardly keep him up, as he doubted the man would draw with the lights off. Then again, he was Sherlock.

The last real bed (that wasn't making him feel sea-sick as well) John had actually got the chance to sleep on was in Cornwall. It was nice to feel a nice mattress under and a soft duvet over him again. He closed his eyes and his breathing and heartbeat slowed down until he fell asleep.

Yes, Sherlock was in a bed, the lights were off, he wasn't texting or drawing but that by no means meant he was planning on sleeping. He did _sort of_ feel tired, but he knew for sure that he wouldn't be able to sleep. John never believed him. Sherlock rolled onto his side and listened as John steadily in- and exhaled. The light coming from the window above him illuminated the room just enough for him to make out his friend's face. Sherlock smiled as he turned back onto his breath and drew images in the air by tracing them with his finger. He drew everything that came to his mind, things that he wanted; things that he didn't want:

His violin, the letters 221B, a cup of tea, a gun, a cigarette, his notebook, a sun, a car, a hammer.

A small sting went through his left hand while drawing it but he pushed it aback, and besides he was too relaxed to really feel pain. Not tired, relaxed...

Sherlock's eyes ripped open when he realized that he'd lost his focus for about thirty seconds. His arm was still pointing in the air though. He quickly went through everything that would happen the next day, then drew the last thing before lowering his arm and finally closing his eyes: He made a sharp triangle, with only two sides though, and drew three lines through it: one almost at the top, one a little lower than half way through and one which was about a quarter of the entire shape's height away from the bottom. All together it created the Eiffel Tower of Paris: his next destination.

Sherlock let out a sigh as he rolled back to the other side facing the wall and started counting down from a thousand. It was a stupid trick children used to fall asleep but just to be sure if it worked he started. He lost count at nine hundred and seventy-something and finally dozed off.

_Seven Hours Later_

At four-thirty the plastic alarm clock, which annoyingly resembled the one back at 221C, started ringing. Sherlock immediately sat up, giving the illusion that he hadn't been sleeping up until then. John let out a groan or two before throwing the covers over the side of the bed and slowly pushing himself into a sitting position. Sherlock reached for the light switch next to the bed and the room lit up at the same time as John hit the snooze button on the alarm clock with more force than needed. This was one of those moments when John just wanted to go home, sleep in, have some tea and perhaps read a book by a warm fire. He didn't want to have to worry about his own country's government being at his and his friend's throat or whether he could get any sleep that night or not. John simply wanted to leave Prague and get on the next flight to London and forget the whole thing happened. But then he remembered why he was doing this. He was helping Sherlock fight an impossible battle, so that at the very least, he wasn't alone. It would be hard, and John really hated the thought that having to drive a car was probably not the worst that was going to have happened to him by the time he was done with this 'adventure'.

They got dressed and made their way to the hotel reception, quietly leaving their card there (they'd already paid the night before). As they walked down the roads to the train station, they remained silent. This seemed to be becoming a habit of theirs: Walking down quiet streets at night not saying a word.

"You didn't tell me where we're going today", said John after a while. Sherlock glanced back at him.

"I never said I knew."

"No, but I know you do, Sherlock." Sherlock gave him a respectful nod.

"Paris."

"Ah, we're not by any chance doing some kind of Europe tour with no real pattern as to where we're going, right?", John asked teasingly.

"The less pattern there is, the more we confuse them, the more we can get ahead of them." John nodded and looked up at a street lantern.

"What hotel-slash-crime scene is in Paris then?"

"Oh we're not staying in Paris, the rooms there are apparently too tight, they only have sheets and no blankets, the view is only mediocre and most importantly I got us a ride for tonight."

John raised his eyebrows."A ride? What d'you mean?"

"All in due time," replied Sherlock as he turned to the right and the train station became visible. It was a long cream-coloured building with a tower on each side of the main entry. It had a reddish roof, like a lot of the old buildings in Prague did, and had an interesting character as the three-quarter moon shined on it. The short and the tall fugitive quickly entered and tried to not be noticed.

_Fifteen Minutes Later_

The two of them stood on the platform under the roof after having bought the tickets, waiting for the train to finally arrive. There were quite a lot of people there so Sherlock and John tried not to attract any attention. Sherlock watched them in amusement, deducing their life stories just so he had something to do. He had to admit to himself that his sleep did make him feel much better now, that didn't mean he was going to make that a habit of his though.

In the distance, he heard a screeching sound; the sound of their train approaching. Sherlock's lips curled into a tiny smile as the wind of the arriving locomotive blew against his face. He started walking towards the end of the train, which was quite far away, not realizing that John hadn't seen him leave until suddenly his friend was beside him, a little out of breath.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"To the front, we'll have a shorter path once we arrive in Paris."

"But that'll be in ten hours."

"So?" asked Sherlock turning his head to him, "We have quite the tight schedule, may I remind you."

They kept walking all the way to the second-last wagon of the twenty-car train. Sherlock took the knob of the old-fashioned train door, turned it sideways and let it swing open. He stepped to the side so John could get on first and hopped on afterwards. John looked around the small hallway then went into the seating section. He sat down in the first seat he found and Sherlock took the seat opposite him. John took off his coat and hung it up on the hook next to the window. He watched as Sherlock pulled his notebook out his pocket and went through all of his sketches again. He dared talk to him:

"Aren't you going to take off your coat?"

"Why bother?" Sherlock mumbled, not looking up.

"As I said, we'll be on this train for ten hours."

"That's hardly an argument, John."

John rolled his eyes and sat back in his seat, wondering if there was something he could do. He looked outside as the train slowly departed from Prague, and John silently said goodbye to yet another place. He reached for the newspaper in front of him and started reading Czech news (by which is meant that they were written in Czech). Not that he understood it, but it was a little entertaining and he was able to figure out a couple words. After about half an hour or so he gave up on it and watched the scenery go by. Sherlock hadn't moved an inch, which in some ways worried John.

He sometimes felt like taking that book away from him, Sherlock right then reminded him of a teenage girl who was completely hooked to her phone, or something, but he knew that that book was keeping Sherlock going. He always seemed to be much more relaxed and focused after he'd been drawing in it or just staring at the thing for a couple hours. It was like his own personal therapy.

John thought of life in 221B, how it was, how it used to be, how he hoped it would become. He wondered how long Sherlock would keep up this "artist" phase of his. He'd be interested in knowing how well he could work on a proper tableau with oil colours... John honestly believed that Sherlock had an undiscovered talent for it, that he could come up with better things than just smileys on the wall. John was simply intrigued by the man sitting on the other end of the table, on the train to Paris, wondering if perhaps he would understand him better one day. Sherlock Holmes was perhaps the only unsolvable mystery but that didn't mean John wasn't willing to try.

When Sherlock drew, it was like when he played his violin. It helped him sort his thoughts out, make things clear in his head. All the terribly loud noise was replaced by one clear voice telling him what he should do next.

Sherlock was concentrating too hard to notice how tired he still was and slowly his eyes fell closed although his mind was still working at full speed. His hand still slowly drew something on the paper with the black pen, but he used it so gently, it didn't really make any lines on the ivory page. His head slowly tilted to the side and was held back by the window. The voice in his head became quieter by the second until it finally ceased talking and all he could hear was his heartbeat.

John turned his head away from the window and smiled softly after seeing Sherlock had silently fallen asleep again. He would've tried to move him a little so he'd be in a more comfortable position but John knew very well how easily his friend woke up. Just then the food trolley rolled in and John allowed himself to get a coffee from it. After taking a while to communicate with the man he finally was able to sip from the brew in delight, even if it wasn't _really_ a very good coffee.


	20. Paris

_Three Hours Later_

"It was the bartender!" Sherlock exclaimed as the train suddenly swerved to the side. His eyes ripped open and his head suddenly stretched back into its upward position. He then remembered that he was in fact on a train to Paris, and not in a casino in Monte Carlo where a woman who'd just won two thousand euros by gambling had been poisoned. He looked around in confusion, was it really not that which had happened? Of course it wasn't, he was just acting idiotically. Sherlock's eyes flashed around and he let them rest on John who was staring at him in bemusement.

"What are you looking at?"

John's smile widened. "Oh it's just you've been explaining every detail of that case for the past five minutes. You kept saying it couldn't be the bartender until now."

"What?" Sherlock rubbed his eyes. He couldn't really remember any of that anymore, it had all washed away.

"Well I don't know much more than that, you don't talk that clearly when you're asleep."

"Maybe..." Sherlock mumbled looking out the window. It was about nine-thirty, judging by the shadows and the height of the sun. Sherlock turned his head back to John.

"What were you doing all this time?"

"Not much, just watching you. You're quite an interesting sleeper."

"Great..." Sherlock remarked sarcastically. He looked around again and saw that his notebook and pen had fallen down. Sherlock bent over to fetch them and flattened the two pages that had been folded. He opened it and looked carefully at the tiny pieces of ripped paper, which were still stapled to the book. He wondered if the pages that he'd ripped out were by now already incinerated or recycled into new paper. Could it be that someone was writing on a former "I AM GUILTY" page, or child was using a prison escape plan as a textbook? Sherlock still had two completely blank pages but he chose to keep them like that for the moment and continued filling up all the space in the already full ones. Now that he had a different coloured pen, he could also make more shadows and contrast, make his previous pictures better. He smiled as the point of the biro traced along the sketches. He didn't feel like he needed to do much. It was nice and relieving. After god knows how long though, he finally put the notebook onto the table and stared outside for a bit.

_Five And A Half Hours Later_

The brakes of the old train screeched as they arrived at Paris Gare de l'est at three-thirty in the afternoon. A dark, curly haired man stepped out, a blond one wearing a backpack closely following him.

"So, where is this ride of yours, then?" asked John once he caught up with his partner.

"We need to get to the Eiffel Tower, organize some metro tickets, will you?" Sherlock said so quickly that he could say it all in one breath. He turned around and stared at a map of the metro lines of Paris on the platform. John sighed.

"Fine, but you stay here." Sherlock nodded and John turned around, looking for a ticket booth in the huge train station. Of course it didn't take him too long to orient himself and soon he was walking back down the platform to where Sherlock was meant to be waiting for him. John had always wanted to go back to Paris one day; he hadn't been in fifteen years at least, but now wasn't really the time for sight seeing. He was however, intrigued that Sherlock had chosen the Eiffel Tower as location to meet up with their so-called "ride". It seemed all so cliché.

Before John even realized it, he was already at the sign where he and Sherlock had agreed to meet again, only... Sherlock wasn't there.

John cursed and looked around worried.

"Sherlock, why do you have to disappear...?" he mumbled, turning around and searching everywhere for them.

"Where are you?" His fists tightened around the small one-day metro tickets he'd acquired as he looked around again. John didn't dare shout out Sherlock's name too loudly as he feared that it'd be recognized.

"Dammit!" John whispered and he started walking back the way he came from. Suddenly, a hand grabbed him out of nowhere and pulled him back. A flash of colour and John was staring at Sherlock.

"What are you doing, John? We don't have any time for this nonsense!"

"I was just-" But by then Sherlock had already sprinted off again.

John found him again on the edge of the road in front of the train station, hailing a cab. One of them stopped and Sherlock quickly opened the door and got it. John followed him in with a confused look.

"La tour Eiffel, s'il vous plaît," said Sherlock. The driver nodded and the car slowly started. John leaned over to him so the taxi driver didn't hear him, in case he spoke English.

"I thought we were taking the metro."

"No."

"Then why did I just get those tickets?"

"I told you not to!"

"When?!"

"After I told you to."

"I'd already left by then!"

"How is that my fault?" John took a deep breath to calm himself down. He looked out the window and watched as the afternoon sun shone over the beautiful buildings of the French capital. The taxi passed various cafés and boutiques and in the distance, John could see the peak of the Eiffel Tower between the roofs of the city.

"Look, John." He turned his head to face Sherlock again.

He took a deep breath.

"I know you're annoyed that I'm not telling you anything and that I'm a little... off at the moment. I'm just stressed out and I do appreciate that you came but-"

John raised his hand.

"Say no more, Sherlock. Apology accepted." They smiled at each other then resumed looking out their windows.

Not very long after, the cab arrived in front of the gardens that surround the Eiffel Tower. Sherlock paid the driver with euros that John wondered where he got and they both stepped out the car. The elegance of the huge metal tower in front of them made the two men just stare in awe for a moment.

"What a lot of people don't know, is that when it was built for the one hundredth anniversary world exposition it was supposed to be temporary but the creator made it too big to take apart again," explained Sherlock to a curiously listening John. He giggled as he walked over to a bench in the garden, Sherlock quickly following him. It was about four in the afternoon, and the car wouldn't be here for a half hour. They were a good three hundred feet away from the tower itself so the people standing in line at each corner of the tower looked tiny. It wasn't tourist season so there weren't _that_ many people but it was still a proper lot of them.

"When's that ride supposed to come?" asked John turning his head back to Sherlock.

"Oh..." Sherlock checked his watch "In half an hour."

"Hmm, we should probably get something to eat."

"Good idea," Sherlock reached in his pocket and gave John a twenty-euro bill, "Here."

"Thanks..." John pushed himself off the bench and made his way to the tower. When he was just under it, John looked up and stared at it for a while. He thought of how nice the view had to be when one was up there right about that time of day and wished he'd had the time to visit it. Once he passed the first corner he went over to the small food stand, which was in between the two and got a bottle of water and a pack of crisps there. He didn't want to get too much at a time as they still had quite a few of those biscuits from 221B (though he wondered if they were drug infested or not). The ex-army doctor slowly made his way back to the bench where his friend was patiently waiting for him. He watched two of the elevators go up and then closely examined the gardens; they were very carefully taken care of and cut.

He joined up with Sherlock again and handed him the bottle of water before he sat back down.

"Thanks," Sherlock murmured and he quickly opened the bottle and took a sip or two.

John took the bag and put his hand on both sides, slowly ripping it open.

"Arrètez-le!" Someone screamed. Both Sherlock and John looked around for who had said that. A policeman came from around the corner and pointed at them. They looked at him in surprise, wondering what he meant.

"Arrètez-le!" he repeated and started running towards them. Both of them got up in alarm but they weren't quite sure what to do.

"C'est Sherlock Holmes!" In that moment, the crisps fell to the ground.


	21. Gunshot on the Eiffeltower

John and Sherlock exchanged glances and both started running as fast as they could. Sherlock took the backpack with one hand and John with the other and they started running towards the road on the other side of the Eiffel Tower. John took a shuddered breath as he tried to keep up with Sherlock's pace. He looked back and saw that not only did that policeman have a friend but also they'd gotten an entire audience. He heard people whisper Sherlock's name, some people even _his_ and gave those few who he thought he heard say "couple" poisonous looks. He could hear the sound of cameras clicking and it irritated him more than it should have. In a way it was like everything was back to normal.

They arrived at the plaza under the tower and passed all four corners. Just when they got to the road, though, two more policemen cut their path and started chasing them back the way they came from. Sherlock stopped and turned around, dragging John along with him.

"Take it easy, will you?" he muttered inaudibly.

Sherlock ran back to the centre of the plaza but stopped again remembering the two policemen that had originally been chasing him.

_Dammit_

He looked from left to right, not knowing what to do, when suddenly he had an idea. Sherlock sprinted to the right and headed for the further right corner of the tower, the only one with stairs.

John let himself be pulled along as he still had no idea what Sherlock was up to.

"Excusez-moi, excusez-moi, excusez-moi," Sherlock mumbled while pushing in front of the furious tourists and a security guard checking their tickets. John mouthed "sorry" at them as he looked back. Sherlock let go of him once they were in the staircase and started running as fast as he could up the steps all the way to the first level. Everything was made of metal and the staircase itself had a square shape. The sun shone through the many bars creating linear shadows all over Sherlock's face as he ran up taking two steps at a time. Not too far behind him was John, doing his best to keep up but taking too many breathing breaks for that. About thirty feet under them were the policemen and the security guard, luckily keeping their distance but both John and Sherlock knew that they couldn't keep them away forever.

Beads of sweat started dripping down his face and he quickly rubbed them off with his sleeve. He took deep breaths as he continued to ascend all the way to the first level, continuously checking that John was still with him. He was behind, but not too far.

If Sherlock counted correctly he'd passed about a third of the three hundred steps to the first storey and rolled his eyes as he continued jumping up the metal steps of the iron tower. It was almost making him dizzy to be going up in a spiral like he was at such a speed.

"They're getting closer, Sherlock!" He could hear John's voice coming from under him. Sherlock nodded although he knew John couldn't see him and quickened his pace. He pushed a couple that was slowly walking up to the side and almost fell onto the woman. The man tripped and would've fallen down if John hadn't at that moment also come running up and caught him. Without waiting for a thank you or a rant he resumed running wondering how many of Sherlock's messes he'd find. The metal made a sort of vibrating noise every time he stepped on it. It was a little bit relaxing, but that wasn't what he needed.

"Resistance is useless!" someone said under him in a strong French accent. His speed increased with the sudden rush of adrenaline he got.

Sherlock was already at two hundred steps when he heard the voice. He bit his lip while trying to go even faster than before even though he felt a stitch in his stomach from the sudden running. His legs were aching but he didn't stop. He had to keep going. Sherlock looked through the bars over to the garden where he'd been sitting not ten minutes ago. Just then, a car caught his eye. It drove up to the edge of the garden and stopped. From afar, Sherlock managed to see the license plate while squinting. It was their ride! All they had to do was get back down and get in that car. That wouldn't be _too_ hard, right?

When John finally arrived at the top of the first level, he'd almost caught up with Sherlock. His partner was crossing the level to get to the elevator on the other end. There weren't many waiting there and John presumed that Sherlock had a plan. He passed a couple plants that got in the way of the view and finally managed to be at the same speed as Sherlock. When they were about halfway across the level the policemen arrived too. From the corner of his eye John was sure that he could see loaded guns in their hands. But he couldn't worry about that now, he just needed to keep running and get to the other side. And in that moment, he heard a shriek come from Sherlock.

_No, not now. Not here._

The words echoed in his head as Sherlock stopped and tightly held his left wrist. The hammer was hitting it again. Every body part he had was stiff with pain. "Please stop," he mumbled, a single tear escaping his eye. Sherlock was conscious of his situation, but it hurt too much to do anything; it hurt far too much.

John came to a stop when he heard the scream, and turned around and checked Sherlock over.

"Not this again," he muttered to himself, walking over to the taller man. The policemen weren't very far now.

"They're going to get us, we need to go!"

No reaction.

"We have to leave right now, Sherlock!"

Nothing.

"Goddammit, Sherlock, wake up!" John yelled furiously. Just then the policemen stopped, ten feet away from them. One of them aimed a gun at Sherlock.

"Step away from the criminal, Doctor Watson, we need him."

"No, he'll never surrender to you!"

"He doesn't need to surrender."

"No!" Sherlock's eyes opened and he looked to the side a fraction of a second before the gunshot. He just barely saw how John stepped in front of him then fell to the ground.

Sherlock stared down at his friend who was holding his chest, his face lifeless.

"No..." he whispered looking down at the body. He didn't even dare touch him.

"No!" Sherlock screamed with all the power in his voice. He felt the tears stream down his face when the loss of his best friend really sank in. This was exactly what he wanted to avoid when he told John not to come. This couldn't be true, it couldn't be happening. Sherlock closed his eyes and opened them after a couple of seconds to check if he wasn't just dreaming. No such luck, John was still dead. How could John be dead?!

The tears continued to pour out as Sherlock fell to his knees and started sobbing at the body.

"Mister 'Olmes," the French man said, "I assume you will come now that your friend is gone." Sherlock looked up to him and stared at him with a glazed look. He pondered over what he should do for a moment, then hesitantly got up and put his head on his hands.

"In the end, mister 'Olmes, you do not 'ave any friends." Sherlock nodded and followed the policemen who were escorting him to the elevator.

"You think?" came from behind.


	22. Even

The four policemen and Sherlock all turned around to see John pointing his gun at them with a smile on his face. Sherlock stared at him with a wide-open mouth. He was too bewildered to move or even to speak. He just stared at his miraculously alive flatmate.

"But how did you do it?" a policeman who sounded like he could almost speak perfect English asked in shock.

John kept pointing the gun with his left hand while unzipping his coat with the other. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small metal box. Carefully he threw it to his friend. Sherlock caught it and carefully looked at it, the four policemen peeking over his shoulders to see as well. There was a large dent in the box, in it a metal capsule: Sherlock's cigarette box had stopped the bloody bullet!

Sherlock stared at it in surprise but in the back of his mind a new plan started forming. His eyes flashed over to John for a second, he nodded, John nodded back and...

"Vatican cameos!" shouted John. Sherlock did as he was told and ducked as low as he could while John swung his firearm so that it hit all four policemen's faces. From his crouch, Sherlock then swung his leg, causing them all to trip over it and fall. Just in that moment, an elevator heading down arrived. Sherlock winked at John who was defensively pointing the gun at the disoriented officers and waved at him to come along. The two of them smiled at each other and ran onto it just before the doors closed. Once they were all the way at the bottom both of them pushed passed all the tourists who had been watching the entire thing like an action movie scene without doing a thing and ran all the way to the car waiting for them. Without too many hellos or goodbyes, Sherlock simply took the key from Ronaldo,who had been waiting outside the car for a while now, and scrambled around the vehicle so he could get on at the right spot. John ran for the other side and ripped the car door open. Before he could even fasten his seat belt Sherlock had already pressed the gas pedal and he was pushed into his seat.

Sherlock drove through the city taking the most confusing of paths so that the police couldn't figure out where they were off to next. His hands were tight around the steering wheel when the car finally got onto the motorway. A tear or two still escaped his eye from the emotional overwhelmingness that happened on the tower before. He pursed his lips when John noticed it.

"What's wrong, Sherlock?" he asked, concerned, as they headed for the south.

"Nothing," Sherlock answered bitterly.

"Sherlock, what is it?" John insisted.

"Y-," Sherlock started the sentence but couldn't finish it.

"Let it out."

"You were dead, John! I thought that you'd got in the way of a bullet meant for me. I..." He broke off again.

"I know, I'm sorry. It surprised me too at first, but then I thought it was our ticket out of there," John tried to console his friend and put a hand on his shoulder.

"I know but still..." Sherlock mumbled, still seeming quite upset.

"Hey, I guess we can say we're definitely even now?" John teased. Sherlock looked up to him and laughed a little.

"Fine, even. We've now both faked our deaths to save the other." They both laughed as they continued their drive down the early evening road.


	23. Carcassonne and Courmayeur

_Seven Hours Later_

After parking the car and checking into the hotel John didn't bother to remember the name of after Sherlock told him of the freaky crime that had happened there, the duo made their way to the restaurant a few minutes before midnight. Maybe he'd researched this place a bit too thoroughly... However, that did have its perks, as this place happened to be a fine hotel with a beautiful view on the famous castle of Carcassonne. They had already found dinner on the way there so all they did was have coffee (John _finally_ let Sherlock have one) and a dessert.

"It's okay to still be in France tonight but we need to leave by tomorrow. With the scandal we've created in Paris we'll be on the top of the newsstand. Oops, third tabloid big bang," Sherlock uttered while stirring the _Poirs Belle Hélene_. John nodded while carefully studying at the illuminated castle behind him. The old building rose majestically above all the houses surrounding it, and the trees that softly wobbled in the wind behind it gave it all a nice charm. The moon, by now almost full, shone high over it.

This restaurant was quite nice actually. The food was delicious and local, and the entire wall was a glass window just so they could see the castle well.

_Half An Hour Later_

The two hadn't entered their room yet after they'd checked in, so it was only after leaving the restaurant that the two men finally could see what this place had to offer. John opened the door and stared at the room still holding the doorknob. Sherlock at first waited for him to get out the way, but as John didn't do so he grew impatient and pushed himself inside as well.

He looked around and stood still. They both stared at the singular queen-sized bed in the middle of the room.

John and Sherlock exchanged irritated looks but didn't say a word.

_Ten Minutes Later_

The two men both lay on the bed, each as close to the edge of his side as possible, facing opposite directions. John was already almost asleep but Sherlock was wide-awake in the dark. It was the thirtieth of April by now. He'd been out of prison a week. A _week_. And they'd already caught up to him _twice_. The more often they caught up to him, the more he kept their hopes up of finding him. He and John somehow needed to quickly change their strategy. He'd already almost lost John today; he couldn't afford any more policemen seeing them. It was too dangerous. They'd shot directly at him, which meant that they had permission to kill him, which was bad.

Sherlock's mind was a mess. He wanted to draw and get it straight again, but he didn't want to annoy John by turning the lights on and getting his notebook. For now, sleep had to suffice to calm his thoughts down. Sherlock started counting down from a thousand again, and got to four hundred and eighty-three before finally falling into a deep sleep.

_Five Hours Later_

The alarm clock on John's side of the bed started ringing at a quarter past six in the morning. John let out a grunt and slowly searched for the clock with his hand as he slowly lifted his head up. Before he could find the button, Sherlock had already pressed it as he'd jumped out of bed the moment it had started ringing.

"Rise and shine, John." Sherlock said as he drew the curtains back revealing the castle of Carcassonne. It wasn't too dark outside, it was almost May after all.

"We should leave before the morning papers are read," he said, turning back to John and looking around the room in case they had left anything lying around. That was pretty unlikely though as they were pretty much only in the rooms for sleeping. As Sherlock frantically ran around the bedroom John slowly pushed himself up and looked around the room. He yawned and swung his feet over the bed.

When John was still putting his shoes on Sherlock was completely ready, impatiently swinging the back pack by its handle. John got back up straight, put on his coat and headed for the door.

"Ready?" he asked Sherlock.

"Yes," said Sherlock and the two of them left the room.

On the way out, Sherlock grabbed a newspaper and the two of them left the reception and headed for the car.

Once the doors were shut Sherlock unfolded the paper and showed it to John. On it John could clearly see himself and Sherlock right in the doorway to the stairs of the Eiffel Tower, under the writing: "LE PROBLÈME SÉCURITAIRE DES ANGLAIS" (that translating to "The Security Problem of the English). John bit his lip and nodded.

"Front page, told you," mumbled Sherlock, as he pulled back the papers and quickly read through the article.

"You know French?" John asked in surprise.

"A little, I'm just checking if they have our license plate," he explained without looking up.

"You think they'll just write it in the papers once they know?"

"Well they want to catch us, right? Wouldn't they be trying to get as many people vigilant as possible?"

"I guess so." There was a short moment of silence.

Suddenly Sherlock slammed the paper down and turned the key that he'd already placed in the ignition.

"They didn't see it, we're good to go." He looked into the mirror and switched it to reverse as he slowly pressed the gas pedal. The car started moving backwards out of the parking spot. He turned the wheel so it would slowly get itself straight, shifted out of reverse, tilted the car a little more and they were off. John pursed his lips, as Sherlock seemed to be doing all this with ease and not much concentration.

_Five Hours Later_

The scenery started changing from hills with grapevines to rocky Alps in the distance. John gazed out the window in awe of the mountains and their beauty in the midday sun. Of course he and Sherlock had, as usual, not spoken much during their drive. John had even come up with a theory about why Sherlock seemed to neglect conversation so much:

According to what he'd told him, he hadn't really spoken with anybody while in prison, the only ones being his so-called "allies" with whom he didn't especially like being. Maybe he just needed to get used to talking again, after all, he had only been out for a week.

"Where are we going?" he asked, noticing how Sherlock hadn't told him yet.

"I... I'm not quite sure," Sherlock admitted after a while.

"No more hotels on your list?" He cocked an eyebrow.

"Of course there are, but they're too far from here, or would you like me to drive you to Naples?"

"Well then where are you headed?"

"The north I guess."

"Sherlock, you must have an idea where you're going!" He looked up and saw a sign saying that it was still ninety kilometres to Chamonix.

"Fine we're going to Chamonix!" he said, trying to satisfy John. His friend looked back at him unimpressed.

"Chamonix is in France, you said we couldn't stay in France." Sherlock turned his head to him for a second in surprise.

"I didn't know you knew where Chamonix was."

"The Mont Blanc Ultra Trail start? I'm not that thick, you know?"

"Hmm... That gives me an idea", Sherlock said with a growing smile.

"What idea?" John asked, intrigued.

"Courmayeur," was all Sherlock replied.

"Now_ that_ place, I don't know."

"It's the second biggest stop on the entire tour of the Mont Blanc. It's a small city in Italy in the valley of Aosta."

"Courmayeur," John repeated, "Sounds French to me."

"The entire valley has traditionally always had a lot of French speakers there. Apparently the accommodation there is quite nice, it's relatively close to a border and we get a view on Europe's highest peek."

"I guess Courmayeur it is then..." John answered with a slight smile.

The mountains were now pretty much surrounding them on every side, and John sat back so he could stare at them for a second and forget all his worries.

"The view is quite stunning, don't you think?" he asked after some time.

"Maybe, I didn't notice."

_Four Hours Later_

It was three in the afternoon, and the two of them had been sitting in the same café since lunchtime. Even John had to admit to himself he was bored. Sherlock on the other hand seemed perfectly entertained by his notebook that he continued to decorate with his newly coloured pen. John let out a sigh and let his eyes flash around the small brick road, looking for something to do. Sherlock made a small giggle at the irony of the situation but showed no further reaction whatsoever.

"We can't even really see any mountains from here!"

That was true. Buildings on two sides surrounded them, and because the street was so narrow it was impossible to see anything behind the shops. The mountains that they did see, however, were colossal. The way the rock just shot out the earth and started off as foresty, then grassy, then rocky, the crown of it covered in snow, did impress John quite a bit.

"Why haven't we searched for a place to sleep yet?" asked John.

"Patience." John rolled his eyes and watched as the people walked by the small terrace they were on, doing their afternoon shopping without a care. In a way he envied them. Suddenly a man in the sports shop opposite the café caught his attention. He seemed to be looking at the two of them very carefully. John wondered how long he'd been staring at them. By the looks of it he could've been watching them the entire afternoon. Alarm bells rang in John's head and he leaned over to Sherlock while trying to look as casual as possible.

"There's a man who looks like he recognizes is us on the shop at six o'clock of you," he whispered.

Sherlock nodded and purposely didn't turn around to check himself.

"Get the bill, we should leave this town then," Sherlock ordered softly while carefully closing his book and stowing it away in his pocket.

John put his arm up, signalling the waitress that they were going to leave (he wondered if she was relieved too that they were finally leaving) and took his coat that was hanging down the back of the chair he was sitting on. The server returned after he'd put on his coat with a small plate, which held the bill on it. John searched his jeans pockets for change and after some time he managed to dig out enough. Politely he thanked her then got up and joined Sherlock who was waiting for him at the exit of the terrace.

"So, where to now?" John asked once he and Sherlock were walking down the small street.

"I don't know. Let's discuss it in the car where no one can hear us," Sherlock replied.

"About the car, won't your..." He trailed off, looking for the right word, "friend be looking for it."

"He told me I could literally drop it off anywhere so long as I could explain to him how to get there later."

The two of them walked down the parking lot, which was basically made for the entire city, looking for the drug-van, as John liked to think of it. Of course he didn't tell Sherlock. Sherlock didn't like jokes like that - he didn't like many jokes anyways. They both got to their sides of the car, John double-checked though first, and opened the two doors simultaneously. Soon, Sherlock had driven out of the parking lot and was headed for the exit of the town. They were about to head for the motorway outside Courmayeur when just after leaving a roundabout, Sherlock suddenly hit the brake. Two cars right behind them honked angrily.

"We need to turn around quickly," was all Sherlock explained to a very confused John. He quickly turned the car around and went back around the roundabout. John wasn't sure if it was panic on Sherlock's face or if he was just dreaming. The dark haired man anxiously looked for another way to get out of the small alpine town.

He drove down the road and suddenly curved into what seemed like another city exit. Just after passing a welcome sign, he quickly turned the car around again.

"There has to be another way out," he mumbled to himself, his eyes frantically flashing around.

"Sherlock," John said, trying to remain calm, "What's going on?" Sherlock swallowed and looked back at him.

"They've found us."

John stared at him in disbelief.

"What? How?"

"I don't know. But they know we're in Courmayeur and they seem to have police cars patrolling the edges of the city."

"So you mean, we're-" John started the sentence but Sherlock turned his head, showing his serious facial expression to finish it:

"We're trapped." John closed his mouth and looked around thoughtfully.

"And you're sure there's no other way out of here? By public transport maybe?"

"Only busses, they'll be controlling them as well."

John became more nervous by the second.

"There's really nothing we can do? No small path where they might not see us?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to disappoint John when suddenly; one small idea started growing at the back of his head. Sure, it was ridiculously dangerous, a risk, but it could just be their only ticket out of this trap city. He looked around and stopped the car at a place where that wouldn't cause too many problems. Sherlock carefully recalculated his plan, wondering if it was really the only way. Yes, it was.

"Get out the car," he commanded his friend. John obeyed and jumped out the parked vehicle as soon as he opened the door.

"So where are we going?" John asked curiously. Sherlock pointed up the mountain in front of them.

"There." John followed his finger and let his eyes rest on the massive rock. He laughed a little.

"There?"

"It's the direction of the TMB. No cars pass through there. They won't have blocked it off, I saw hikers go through before."

"The what?" the blonde man yelled.

"T M B," Sherlock repeated with a slightly annoyed tone, "Tour Mont Blanc."

"The Tour Mont Blanc?!" John exclaimed, he checked the time on his watch. "Sherlock, it's a quarter to four by now. You expect us to go hiking in the Alps, on a not so very easily graded trek, without any gear for it? At a quarter to four in the afternoon?!"

Sherlock looked at him, trying to find the real problem with it.

"Your shoes are fine, don't worry, and all the other gear isn't really needed."

"Sherlock! What about hiking sticks in case we slip!?" John screamed (Sherlock was quite happy they'd stopped in a quiet neighbourhood where not many people were).

Sherlock remained calm.

"If you slip, I will catch you."

John could see every single way possible to die in the Italian Alps flash before his eyes, but he just bit his lip and said:

"All right, fine, let's do it." Sherlock's face lit up.

"Excellent."


	24. The TMB Ultra Trail

The two men were leaning against the wall of the hotel. One of them, the taller one, was peeking around the corner to check if the coast was clear, the other was waiting for his signal.

"'Kay, no one's there. Go!" The two of them started walking down the road, trying to look as "normal" as possible.

"Quit whistling!" Sherlock yelled, already getting fed up after two seconds of the noisy blowing coming from his friend's mouth. John stopped after making a high whistle and slowly going lower. They passed a couple sport equipment shops, which had maps of the entire region outside. John looked to see if someone was coming and slipped one under his coat, thinking that it couldn't possibly be bad to steal a map. Besides, the thing could really come them in handy.

"How do you know the way you're taking is the right one anyway?"

"We need to get out of Italy too now. The next border is closer in this direction and we'd end up back in France taking the other way. This one brings us to Switzerland," Sherlock explained while trying to keep his voice down as much as he could. They walked a little farther down the town until they finally started leaving the inhabited area of the city. After a five-minute walk or so, John dared take the map out from under his coat.

He unfolded it and carefully studied the entire thing.

"Sherlock," he said quietly. The dark haired man looked up immediately.

"Hm?" he said with raised eyebrows.

"According to this map, it's at least a two day trip to the border."

"And?" Sherlock failed to see the point John was trying to make. John lowered the map and stared at him in surprise.

"We can't walk that long!"

"Can't we? Some people do it in a matter of hours!"

"But that's not us, Sherlock, those are people who train months in advance and most importantly: those are people who are actually wearing hiking boots while doing so!" Sherlock stared down at him unconvinced.

"We'll be fine, John," he finally said, "I promise." John nodded and let out an unconvinced grunt.

_Half An Hour Later_

John needed to find the correct rhythm.

_Right foot, left foot, breath, right foot, left foot, breath... No that doesn't work... right foot, breath, left foot, breath... No, no... Right foot, breathe in, left foot, breathe out..._

Sherlock was a little ahead of him, slowly climbing the one thousand metre they needed to ascend. The path was a sort of flat way, which evenly climbed up the mountain in a slalom fashion. It was quite muddy, but not wet, which made it pretty good for walking. John couldn't believe he'd agreed to this. It was almost four-thirty now, which meant that it wouldn't be dark for a while, but John knew very well that one shouldn't be caught on a mountain after six. The good thing was that they were in the trees now, meaning that they weren't exposed to the extreme heat of the sun anymore. John could already feel his legs growing weaker by the second. Obviously he needed to change his tactic somehow.

He looked over to Sherlock who was gradually getting farther and farther ahead of him and carefully studied the way he walked. The taller man seemed to be sort of slaloming up the hill by changing direction every couple steps. John raised his eyebrow and tried it too, surprisingly finding that it worked. What he really needed though was a hiking stick.

_Two And A Half Hours Later_

After pretty much three hours of ascent, they were finally at the top. After some insisting, John managed to convince Sherlock to take a break. They sat on the terrace of a small refuge named Bertone and looked down at the city, which seemed so tiny that kilometre farther down.

"Wow, we've done quite a walk." John sighed while stretching out his arms.

"Don't rest, John. We're leaving again in five minutes. We still have a long way to go."

"I know... And I don't like it at all."

Sherlock got up and jumped over the wooden bench he'd been sitting on. With a quick pace Sherlock started walking up the hill and made his way through a field.

"Dammit," muttered John while getting up and pushing the bench back. He ran up the hill so he could catch up with Sherlock but just as he was getting closer, his foot hit a rock and twisted to the side.

John yet out a yelp of pain but managed to catch himself from falling. Sherlock turned around at the scream and rushed to John's side.

"What is it? What happened?" he asked frantically while checking John over. The blond man rubbed his foot.

"It's nothing, I just twisted an ankle."

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked with a surprisingly concerned tone.

"Hundred per cent."

They smiled at each other and continued their route as the pain had already mostly worn off.

This time Sherlock stayed behind John, watching his every step, prepared to catch him at any possible moment. He couldn't afford the panic if something were to happen to him. It was only since yesterday that he fully understood what he'd put John through. He'd lost him once now. A second time would just be too much. Sherlock was aware of how dangerous this hike was at night and without any equipment but quite honestly, he still preferred this to prison. Besides, the walking might've been exhausting but finally they were truly alone without any chance of being recognized.

His eyes flashed over to the mountain on the other side of the valley, which the sun was slowly setting on. His gaze wandered over to the snow-capped peak of the Mont Blanc, which poked its way over the hill they were walking on. Slowly the sky grew a deep blue and the by-now-full moon came out from behind one of the mountains of the Mont Blanc massif. The massif is a giant group of peaks close together of which the Mont Blanc is one. It is actually the entire massif that the Tour Mont Blanc or TMB circles and not just the one mountain.

As the night grew darker and older, Sherlock admitted to himself that it was actually becoming easier to walk as he was really starting to find a pace, which went at the exactly right speed for him.

Of course John had noticed that Sherlock was suddenly behind him now. How could he not? During the past week all he'd been doing was keeping up with Sherlock, and now suddenly he was staying behind him. John knew that it had to have something to do with the bullet that almost hit him on the Eiffel Tower the night before. He looked to his left and carefully watched as they sluggishly passed the Mont Blanc massif. When the sun was completely gone he checked the time on his watch which he could only see thanks to the bright light of the moon illuminating its face: It was nine twenty-five. John sighed as he realized how desperately he needed a break and sat down on a rock, which was on the edge of the path. Sherlock stared at him, appalled that he simply stopped like that, then shrugged and sat down next to him. They both took deep breaths as they stubbornly fought exhaustion. John took the backpack off his back and placed it between his legs. Slowly, he opened it and dug his arm into it. He pulled out the torch and turned it on, testing how well it worked.

"This could be helpful," John said, waving the thing in front of Sherlock. The taller man looked at it carefully and nodded.

"Careful though, you don't know how much battery it has left."

John turned it off and set it beside him. He turned around and took off his shoes so he could rub his aching toes a little while silently watching the snow on the mountains glistening in the moonlight. Making a circular movement with his fingers, he watched the sharp shapes of the rocks on the other side of the valley. They'd been walking across the same mountain ever since finishing their high ascent from Courmayeur, and when John looked to his right he could see how much farther they needed to go. At the very end of the valley was a high pass, the top of it being the Italian-Swiss boarder. And even once they passed it, there was no telling how much farther their next place to stay would be. Once he felt that his feet didn't hurt _that _much anymore John put back his shoes on and pushed himself up again. After putting on the bag he started hiking towards the pass, Sherlock quickly following him.

John felt blisters on every single one of his toes as the night neared its peak. The flashlight in his left hand faintly illuminated the path ahead of them. He passed a pile of branches, stopped, and then picked up the one that corresponded best to his size. John then resumed walking, using the branch as a walking stick. It wasn't great but he felt more confident about walking quickly with it. As the time approached midnight the path brought them down the hill and into the valley where a gravel road continued their path. Not just his feet hurt now, but his eyes were struggling to stay open. Not that it made much of a difference in the dark. John bit his lip to try to forget the pain growing in his calves as they kept walking along the mountains.

"We should eat something. We haven't had anything since we were at the café," said John after a while.

"Digestion will only exhaust you more. We can eat once we're over the border."

John pursed his lips and tried not to think about the growing emptiness in his stomach.

One thing that was beautiful, was the view, even Sherlock had to admit that. He couldn't see a flaw in the way the rocks crookedly grew out of the ground, patches of forest and grass randomly scattered upon them. It was quite simply stunning to look at. His feet were aching like mad as well of course, but his determination to never set foot in that prison again, to one day return to 221B and let everything go back to normal kept pushing him closer and closer to the border, in no way planning to stop in the near future. They arrived next to a refuge named Refugio Elena, which was right at the beginning of the valley at the foot of a mountain and next to a great torrent, at around three in the morning. Sherlock stared up the mountain where the pass was waiting for them. It wasn't very far, only to get there they needed to climb one thousand metres on an extremely steep pass. John turned his head to Sherlock, unsure of the entire situation, but nevertheless the taller man nodded at him to lead the way. Now, more than ever, it was important that he was there if John were to fall down.

There was a yellow sign that showed the different places they could go to and how much time it estimated would be needed to get there.

With a slightly shaking hand, John placed his walking stick on the rocky path and started slowly trekking up. He swallowed down the pain in his feet as Sherlock started following him up as well. This ascent was as high as the one they'd done from Courmayeur earlier that evening. Taking the uneven serpentine path, the two men slowly climbed their way up to the pass of Ferret while speaking the scarcest amount of words, just the rare "Watch out!" or "Careful!" John could just about see the path in the dark and his eyes, which were closing more and more, aggravated the situation.

"John! You need to stay awake! It's dangerous."

"Just... Let me rest for a second..." mumbled John almost incoherently.

"We can't! We have to move!"

"Just for a second..." John placed his hand on a patch of grass, which was growing next to the path, and he slowly lowered himself onto it. He closed his eyes and carefully leaned his head back. Sherlock rolled his eyes and frantically looked around as if he was afraid someone might be coming.

_Of course no one's coming, you idiot! You're in the middle of the Alps at three-thirty in the morning!_

Sherlock let out a sharp breath as suddenly his wrist stung again for the first time since Paris. He sat down next to John and carefully looked over the deep blue bandage, which in the dim light looked jet black to him. The hammer was still clearly there but definitely not as strong as it had been at the time. Maybe the fright of losing John had made him more resistant to it. He looked away from his left arm and carefully placed it on his lap, looking over to his friend who seemed to have already fallen asleep. He didn't want John to be in this danger. It wasn't his battle, John shouldn't have been involved. He might need to serve time now too...

On the other hand however, deep inside Sherlock knew that he needed his friend. Twice already the police had caught up with them, both times John had saved him from them. Twice his wrist had started hurting while being chased by them; both times John risked all so that he would stay out of prison. Sherlock could never have done it without him. What would he have done if John hadn't been there to punch that agent in Amsterdam in the face? Sherlock had been paralysed with fear in that moment; he could've never done it himself. And even if he had, there wouldn't have been another person on the correct side to drive the car to the German border. Most importantly, there would've been no one to jump in front of him and shield him from the bullet in Paris.

Subconsciously, Sherlock placed his hand on his friend's shoulder and slowly patted it. He looked up to the moon and thanked no one in particular for his guardian angel. In that moment John took a too deep breath and woke himself up with a snort. He looked around in confusion, trying to place where he was as Sherlock pulled his hand back and smiled to himself.

"Well, better get going," he said while helping his friend back up again.

They continued to slowly get to the top of the pass, at the same time avoiding a second twist of the ankle. The five minutes of sleep had surprisingly worked wonders on John, he felt like this wouldn't be that hard any more. Of course his feet still hurt like mad but at least his eyes were wide open again.

After about an hour of the steepest climb yet, the two of them found themselves on a gently rising way, the pass straight ahead of them. John quickened his pace so he could get to the pass as quickly as possible.

"Careful!" Sherlock yelled, looking down the mountain they'd just climbed. John looked down as well and slowed down again, making sure he checked whether the ground was good or not after every step. Finally, they arrived at the pass, and John let himself gently fall onto the ground.

"This is it. We're in Switzerland." John sat down next to him.

"We're not done yet. We still need to find public transport."

"And how long'll that take?"

"I don't know, but I'd say we have to get to the bottom of this mountain first." John let out a grunt of frustration. They'd been hiking for so long... Wasn't all of Switzerland at the top of a mountain anyways?

"I know it's hard, John, but I'm pretty sure the worst is behind us."

"That's not very comforting, Sherlock." The taller man stared at him a little in a disappointment but then noticed how even more splendid than before the view was. In the distance, the sun was beginning to rise again, making a dark orange sky, cut through by the black outline of the Alps that went as far as the eye could see. He got up and walked over to the edge of the pass, looking down the path that they'd have to descend soon. It wasn't rocky or anything, simply a quite steep field if he would have had to describe it. To his left was the edge of the Mont Blanc Massif. There was a glacier there, illuminated and tinted a light blue colour by the moonlight. It wasn't the sort of thing Sherlock usually cared about but after those two chases in Amsterdam and Paris, after all those long train rides in Prague and Berlin, after all that driving, all that worrying about whether he'd be recognized or not, Sherlock finally felt calm and relaxed. No, more than that, as if finally the world had left him alone and at peace. He bit his lip as he realized that it was now time to leave this small sanctuary and keep going with their route.

"John, we have to go now."


	25. A Short Break

_Four Hours Later_

Climbing up the steps to reach the tables in the restaurant had never been such a challenge as after almost seventeen hours straight of hiking. When the two of them were finally sitting around the table they immediately and simultaneously just flopped over and let their heads rest on their crossed arms which were lying on the table. Every muscle in his body hurt and all John wanted to do was sleep, but knowing Sherlock he was pretty damn sure he wasn't going to get any of that. The two of them pushed themselves back up after a while.

They were in a small holiday village called La Fouly, mostly used as a refuge stay on the Tour Mont Blanc.

A waitress walked up to them.

"Que désirez-vous?", she asked. John knew enough French to know that she was asking what they wanted. Sherlock's eyes flashed over to him with a hopeful look. John rolled his eyes and mouthed "Fine" to him. Sherlock smiled in gratitude and looked up to the woman.

"Un café, s'il vous plaît," he said in a remarkably good French.

"Deux cafés," John corrected. The waitress smiled and left the terrace. The two of them looked around again; it seemed as if the beautiful views just never stopped here. They were in a valley at the moment but one of the mountains surrounding it was right in front of them. Being in the north, the morning sun shone on it wonderfully, the blue sky adding a nice splash of colour to the entire image.

The waitress arrived with the two coffees and placed them on the table. The two men muttered something in between a "Thank you" and a "Merci" to her and stirred the brew for no reason. Sherlock carefully put his usual two cubes of sugar into his coffee and kept stirring. He then took a sip to check it. The steamy drink had never been more welcome to him than now. After eighteen hours of hiking, this was just what he needed. Sherlock leaned back in his seat and let out a sigh of relief. John smiled at him as he slowly took a second sip of his own coffee, which felt very nice as well.

"So what's the plan?" John asked with a small beacon of hope that Sherlock might tell him something.

"You leave that to me, John."

No, hope gone. John raised his eyebrows and took another sip.

"Okay..."

"We're taking a bus at twelve thirty-five, we may as well eat here."

"Finally!" John said under his breath while closing his eyes. He had completely forgotten about the hole in his belly, which had been complaining for the last ten hours at least.

_Six Hours Later_

After having eaten at La Fouly, taken the bus from there and changed train five times, the two men were now on a train climbing a mountain, somewhere in central Switzerland. John stared out the window and watched the trees go by while Sherlock was quietly studying his notebook. They hadn't had the chance to sleep yet; none of the train rides were longer than forty minutes. The train came to a stop in a small station with two platforms. Suddenly, Sherlock looked up and looked around, carefully making sure they were at the right spot.

"This is us," he mumbled and jumped up from his seat. Before John even noticed that he was gone, he saw his friend outside the train and running off to the other side of the tracks. John swore under his breath, got up and quickly walked to the door of the train. Once he was out, Sherlock was already on the other side of the tracks.

"Sher-!" John broke off, remembering that they'd also made headlines here. Nevertheless, Sherlock recognized that as being a shout out to him and turned around.

"Wait a second!" Sherlock rolled his eyes and crossed his arms as John finally caught up to him.

"Okay, now let's go!" The taller man started walking down the road.

"Sherlock..." John said but more quietly than before.

"What?!" he said, turning around frantically.

"We've been rushing everything non-stop since we were in Courmayeur yesterday evening. Can we just pause for a little and look around?"

Sherlock stared at him with an undeducible look for god knows how long.

"Fine."

"Thank you." John turned around and carefully studied his new location. It seemed like a small town in a long valley. There was a playground behind them and a couple of tall yellow signs which pointed in every direction, indicating how long a walk places were, as they'd seen quite a lot already around here. In front of them was the train station, and under a small roof, when he squinted, he saw a sign that told him the name of the small city: Meiringen.

John turned back to Sherlock.

"So what made you come up with this place? What crime no one has the slightest clue of but you happened in Meiringen?" he asked, secretly wondering if he was pronouncing it correctly. Sherlock's lips curled into a smile and he nodded at the signs behind his friend.

"Look behind you." John stared at him in confusion, turned around once more and looked at the signs again. There it was, one odd one out. Beneath all the yellow hiking signs was one brown one pointing to his right. It read: Reichenbachfall.

His mouth formed on "O" as he finally understood.

"But that's..." he looked around to see whether anyone was there: no one; perfect, "...this is where _the _falls are. The falls on the painting you recovered."

"No, the other Reichenbach Falls, the ones that I said would be a great place to hide near if I ever ended up as a wanted criminal," Sherlock said sarcastically. John looked back at the signs.

"Reichenbach... Seems like so long ago."

"It was so long ago..."

"So where are we staying? Is there even a hotel here?"

"Course there is, don't be stupid, John. But we aren't staying there. It's too dangerous. I thought we could sleep in there instead." He pointed at a small chapel beside the tracks.

"And no one will notice?" John asked while carefully inspecting the small building. It seemed comfy enough.

"Not if we're careful enough. Besides it isn't a Sunday, we should be fine."

"All right then, I guess it's your decision so..."

John started walking towards the small chapel and opened the door. He let Sherlock pass through first, then entered as well and locked the door behind him. It wasn't great but it would certainly do. Flinging his backpack off, John stepped into the hall, flashing his eyes in every direction, walked over to the first row of benches, then let himself fall onto it and almost instantly fell asleep. Sherlock laughed but then remembered his own exhaustion. He went to the other side of the row, lay down on it and fell asleep extremely quickly as well.


	26. The End of the Track

_Eleven Hours Later_

Sherlock's eyes ripped open at the sound of a man's subdued voice. He frantically pushed himself up and looked around in confusion. It was quite dark in the chapel, what time was it? Seven in the morning, maybe? The voice was still incoherent to him and the fact that it needed to penetrate a stone wall to get to him surely wasn't helping.

"John, wake up." He gently shook his friend awake.

"Hmm?" said John while rubbing his eyes. Suddenly he heard the voice as well, and quickly John sat up. The two of them concentrated on the voice to see if they could understand it. Clearly, it was being spoken through a megaphone, but it still took them a while to make out what they were saying:

"...Surrender or we will enter the building. Repeat: Surrender or we will enter the building. Resistance is useless, Mister Holmes. We know you're in there."

Sherlock and John both stared at each other, trying to comprehend what had happened. John was just about to open his mouth to give a witty remark back but Sherlock placed his finger over his mouth.

"Stay quiet," he whispered, "If they don't know we heard them we can still surprise them."

"What are we going to do, Sherlock? By the looks of it, they've got the entire chapel surrounded," John whispered back.

"I don't know..." Sherlock looked down.

"We have to come up with something. There isn't much time until they-" There was a bang on the door. The two of them turned their heads to it. The men on the other side were already trying to tear it down.

"Get up!" Sherlock commanded while pulling John into a standing position. He took him by the hand and the two of them stood in front of the door.

Another bang hit the door and Sherlock could tell not many more would be needed to break it down.

The man on the other end's foot hit the door once more, and John was sure he heard a crack. Just before the last push, Sherlock bent over to John and whispered:

"Once the door opens, make a run for it."

"What about the bag?"

"Leave it."

"And the gun?"

"Leave it." John wasn't certain that was a good idea, but Sherlock seemed so confident about it all he simply decided to trust him. He nodded and turned his head back, staring at the door again. The man hit the door one more time and it slammed open.

"Now!" Sherlock yelled and the two of them ran for the door, not letting go of each other's hands. The man holding the rifle was so surprised that they basically just needed to run past him. In front of the small chapel waited six more armed men and the man holding the megaphone. They all pointed their weapons at them but instead of standing still, Sherlock just ran even faster than before, practically tearing John with him. He took a sharp turn to the right and ran through a small garden, which was in front of the chapel.

"After them!" he heard a man yell behind them. The two men headed for the main road, which led them up a small hill. A gunshot scared the two but didn't hit either. Sherlock took a shuddered breath as he tightened his hand around John and they curved with the road. Once they reached the top of the hill, they came to an intersection where Sherlock turned right on a long, straight and flat street. The two of them looked back, completely out of breath but still running, to see whether their chasers were still right behind them. They had gotten farther behind but were still very keen to catch them. Another gunshot rang out and Sherlock and John automatically ducked their heads.

"Run in a slalom! They won't be able to shoot like that!"

John could hardly see how that would help.

"I could easily shoot someone who was running in a slalom. Oh Jesus..." He closed his eyes for a moment when for the third time he heard a gunshot.

"Don't compare yourself to them, John, it makes them look too bad." John smiled at him. Was that an actual compliment coming from Sherlock Holmes? Actually, when John thought about it, it was closer to being an insult.

Good old Sherlock.

"Okay, fine!" He started running left then right, left then right, hoping it wouldn't slow his pace too much. They ran over a bridge that passed a small river and as they continued to run along the road, they noticed how a small creek was flowing to the river in parallel to it. John turned his head back again to see where their pursuers were.

"Dammit, Sherlock! They're getting closer!"

"I know, John," Sherlock breathed through gritted teeth.

They arrived at a small building with a roof that covered funicular tracks at the end of the road. Sherlock quickly stopped running and looked around, searching for somewhere possible to go. Just then, a funicular slowly came down the tracks and into what turned out to be a station for it. An idea growing in Sherlock's mind, he grabbed John by his hand again and pulled him under the roof and up the steps. He opened the door to the front of the small train and pushed out the driver who then cursed at them in Swiss German. It wasn't hard to deduce which lever would start the train again, so quickly Sherlock pulled it and the wagon started climbing up the hill. John looked back and saw as the police were just arriving at the station when they took off. They took aim and at once all of them started shooting at the train.

"Sherlock, duck!" Sherlock turned his head, his eyes widening at the sight, just before John pulled him down and they were crouching on the part of the train that was surrounded by metal as it didn't have any windows.

"So is that it, did we lose them?" John asked while trying to catch his breath again once the bullets stopped.

"Hardly, there's another train coming our way, they'll be at the top soon." John pursed his lips and nodded as he slowly pushed himself up again. The funicular was next to a strong torrent, which seemed to be going at quite the speed. Wait, they were going up a hill and following a steep creek? John turned his head and looked above him. His eyes widened as he turned his head and found himself staring at the Reichenbach Falls themselves. He could smell the humidity in the air as the falls roared in the distance.

"I didn't realize we were actually going to the Reichenbach Falls."

Sherlock looked up at him then stood upright as well, just when the second funicular crossed their path.

"Yeah, well I decided that quite quickly too so..."

John let out a misplaced giggle and he looked up to the falls. "I didn't know they were that big."

"You don't know a lot of things, John."

"You can talk!" Just then the funicular arrived at the station. Sherlock hopped off the train and quickly looked around. John followed him out of the station and shielded his face when suddenly a great amount of water splashed onto him. A buzzing noise of water hitting sharp rocks was in his ears and finally he managed to take his arm away from his eyes. Immediately drops fell onto him and started wetting his forehead. He looked around as the train behind him started to descend; they were on their way then.

Beside the house that was actually just a small train station was a roof of glass and a path leading to and then alongside a cliff . Beside the gravel way stood a wall, maybe two inches thick, and then nothing but water for fifteen feet down at least.

Sherlock was standing on the path, his hair already soaked in water, looking around. There was only one way, and that was that small path along the cliff, and there was no telling where that was going unless...

"John, get on the edge of that wall."

John turned around frantically.

"What?!" He walked over to the edge, carefully examining the wall. Sherlock couldn't possibly be serious.

"That's an order, John!" Sherlock growled, water pouring down his face. John stared at him for a second, bit his lip, then nodded. He made his way to the glass roof and as it was only a little over six feet high, he could easily use it as something to hold onto while climbing onto the stone wall. He placed his left hand on the roof, the other on the wall and put his right foot onto it. John tried not to look down at the sharp rocks under him, took a deep breath and pushed himself up. He placed his left leg onto the wall and let go of the roof so he could turn around but lost balance while doing so. John's eyes widened as he leaned backwards over the edge flapping his arms frantically. Just before falling, he felt Sherlock's hand holding onto his collar. John opened an eye and let out a sigh of relief.

Now it was Sherlock's turn to get onto the wall. After John had carefully moved a little to the side, he found himself in the same position as John was before: left hand on roof, right foot on wall, right hand on wall. He closed his eyes for a second and concentrated on his plan, waiting for the right moment to get on.

For just a few seconds, he couldn't hear any of his thoughts anymore, not even the constant rustling of the Reichenbach Falls.

"There they are! Stop them!" Sherlock turned his head and saw that the police's train was just arriving at the station. His eyes widened, he looked back in front of him and pushed himself up. With great balance he turned himself around at record speed, took John's hand again for extra balance and shot the falls behind him one last look. All the policemen came running out from the wagon station, all already aiming their guns at Sherlock. He took a deep breath and put a hand in front of himself.

"Don't take a step closer!" he warned. All the men stopped at about a ten-foot distance from him. The leader of them, the one that before had been speaking in the megaphone, stepped forward to them. He narrowed his eyes and gave the two of them a poisonous look.

"Or what?" he practically spat out the words.

Sherlock swallowed and looked back once more.

"Or... I will jump." John took a shuddered breath at that and there was a short pause.

The officer then started laughing.

"Mister Holmes, you can't threaten me with suicide. We have permission to shoot you if you don't cooperate."

Sherlock's face fell. Of course! They shot at him in Paris! How could he be so stupid?! His wrist felt like it was being hammered again but he couldn't let it hurt him. Sherlock simply kept holding onto John trying to ignore it as much as possible.

The man stopped laughing and looked back to the others.

"Take aim." John looked over to Sherlock, and watched in horror as seven red dots were on his friend's face now. Sherlock looked back at him and with one look they exchanged a thousand words. John nodded and Sherlock ripped his head back at the others.

"Open fire!" Just before the men started shooting, Sherlock pulled John in front of him and held him there, John not visibly fighting back.

"Cease fire!" the man yelled once he saw that the red dots were now all over John. Everyone looked up from their guns and stared at him threateningly.

"You may have permission to shoot me, but I'm sure you'll be in a lot of trouble for shooting him!"

"Sir, I am allowed to shoot only the criminal," a man explained to the hesitant commander of the seven.

"But even if you do, I'll fall down and pull him down with me," said Sherlock, struggling to keep his balance with a man in front of him. John tried his hardest to be in a helpful position but it was difficult to A) stay in balance B) shield Sherlock enough and C) have enough space for the two of them.

Sherlock smiled as the officer seemed to be running out of options.

_Come on... Just let me explain myself._

The colour seemed to vanish from the policeman's face, when suddenly he whispered something to the man who was kneeling closest to him. He nodded at him, got up, walked up to the two men, then with a swift move grabbed John and pulled him down. Sherlock looked into John's dark blue eyes as he saw his guardian angel being pulled away from him.

"No!" John screamed as the man's strong arms restrained him from doing anything. He tried to kick him but the officer wasn't so bad after all. Would his face not already be wet from the falls, Sherlock would have seen the single tear escape his eye. He was alone now. Him against eight officers pointing a weapon at him.

"One last warning, Mister Holmes." The officer said once he was sure John was taken care of.

"I will count to three and if you aren't off that wall by then..." Sherlock looked at him with tightly closed mouth. He turned his head over to John who was watching helplessly, still trying to free himself and mouthed him a "Sorry".

"Take aim. One..."

Sherlock swallowed hard as he weighed out his options. He bit his lip as he saw scarcely few: Go back to Pentonville, let them shoot him, or jump down. He looked down at the falls and knew that even if he did decide to jump he wouldn't be able to find the courage quickly enough to do so.

"Two..."

So this was it. He was going to die a fraud, shot in Switzerland, his best friend forced to watch. The only comfort he could find was that it would finally be over. Sherlock's feet felt light as if he was standing on a cloud. He closed his eyes and relaxed all his muscles.

"Three. Open fire."

_Hello death. Nice to meet you_

"Sherlock!" John cried out helplessly, like he had only once before in his life. The one other time he knew exactly what was going to happen but just didn't want to believe it; Sherlock was going to die.

Someone cried out to him. The only person left in the world who still believed in him. It was just like when he was in that lonely cell in Pentonville, blaming himself for everything that had happened. The last time this happened, hearing that voice, being reminded that there was still someone there had been _the_ thing that helped him get out of there. And now, he was going to let the second time kill him.

"Wait!" he said waving his arms in front of him and almost losing balance from it. All the men rolled their eyes and looked up from their weapons.

"What is it now?!" they asked clearly frustrated.

"Mister Holmes, my patience is wearing very thin." John looked straight up at him curiously, wondering what the great detective had to offer this time.

"What is the name of this place, officer could you remind me please?" Sherlock asked. The man's mouth dropped open angrily.

"Mister Holmes, if you think this is some kind of game-"

"Oh no no no, of course not Sir! Just remind me of the name of this place."

The man sighed. "Meiringen."

"No, I mean the water falls here. What was their name again?" Sherlock asked in a seemingly innocent tone. The man rolled his eyes.

"The Reichenbach Falls. Any more questions?"

"Yes, one more. Could you please translate the word 'Reichenbach' to English?" The man looked back at him furiously having no idea where this was going. John looked up to him as he finally understood.

"Uh... Rich... Rich brook, I guess." The officer said, though suddenly his eyes widened as he caught on as well. Sherlock's lips curled into a wide smile.

"Exactly, officer."

"But... How is that relevant?"

"It's relevant as I first became known for recovering a painting of a waterfall, this waterfall to be precise. Shortly after that, a man named James Moriarty turned out to be called Richard or Rich Brook. I supposedly invented Moriarty-"

"You didn't supposedly do it! You were proven to have!"

"Please don't interrupt me. I do not like that at all."

The man closed his mouth, a little intimidated by the man on the wall.

"Now, can you tell me how it is possible to have such a coincidence in the 'real' world, but it is not possible that I know you're sleeping with his wife just because I saw you both have the same lipstick and perfume on you but he's the one wearing the wedding ring which has traces of the same nail polish that is next to your left ear, Officer, from a source that is no other than my own eyes?"

The officer's mouth opened in shock.

"You're what?" the other man yelled in burning fury and turned his gun, aiming it at the officer. John tried to hide his smile as he watched the fight Sherlock created blossom. One of the other men stopped just watching and took the weapon out of the angry man's hand.

"We can take care of this later, guys." Everyone looked back to Sherlock who had clearly made his point and was still standing on the wall.

"What do you want, Holmes?"

"I ask one thing of you: give me a second chance. Let me go on trial again so I can prove my innocence."

The officer looked around as he weighed out his options.

"Fine, Holmes. But if this doesn't work out for you and you break out of prison again I will find you, even if it's the last thing I do." Sherlock smiled again.

"Understood."

"Yield weapons," the man commanded and turned around, heading back for the train. John was released from the clutches of the policeman and he ran straight to Sherlock, quickly pulling him down the wall. He hugged him tightly the moment Sherlock was safe back on the ground, not caring how wet he was from the splashing of the falls.

"We made it, Sherlock," he whispered softly. As much as Sherlock wished that was true he couldn't help but say:

"We haven't made it yet."

"You were going to let them shoot you and fall down if they hadn't said yes, weren't you?"

"That was the price I was ready to pay to never have to go back to Pentonville again."

"...I hate you sometimes."

"I know."


	27. The Final Trial

_Six Weeks Later_

"And that, ladies and gentlemen," said Sherlock while quickly pulling his pointer away from the screen that had been projecting his Powerpoint presentation and retracting it to the size of a pen, "Is how Moriarty managed to alter the records and create Richard Brook. Does the prosecution have any more questions?"

Of course he'd easily found the conclusive evidence after finally convincing the government to let him look. That had been the problem in the first place! He'd stayed too passive throughout the trial, afraid that if he showed off too much they'd just get fed up with him and lock him up for sure. The thing was, the prosecution had purposely not given him much of a chance to prove himself, and with him not trying too hard himself either, the prosecution had convinced the jury with ease; but not now, not this time. He wasn't going to let that happen again. With great self-confidence, Sherlock stepped back to the exact same podium he had been at nine months before. Only this time, something was different. He was certainly not the same man he was nine months ago and even less the one from almost four years ago.

"So, Mister Holmes, you claim you can deduce an awful lot just from observing people. To prove this strong assumption, might we have a demonstration?" Sherlock couldn't help but smile.

"You really don't want me to."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Trust me."

"I think it'll be fine."

"Are you sure about this?"

"I insist."

"Very well then, where to start?"

_Two Weeks Later_

"The prosecution calls in Doctor John Watson."

It was the second time in his life John heard those words, only this time he was determined not to let the lawyer make him look like an idiot. With tightened fist, he stepped up to the podium and again placed his hand over the bible.

"I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth."

"What were you doing while Mister Holmes was held in custody?"

"I was trying to prove his innocence, with very little success that is."

"And you had no idea he was actually planning to break out?"

"No, I didn't, and to be honest I don't see how this has anything to do with it."

"Do you think it is against the law for someone to break out of a prison like Mister Holmes did?"

"Yes, if that someone actually is guilty. In this case I would say it is against the law to put him there in the first place."

"Only if he can prove his innocence, that is."

"He can, he's already given the jury all the solid evidence needed."

"That's for the jury to decide."

"Yes, and I believe that this time they'll make the right decision."

"What made you agree to run away with him when he returned to you after six months of absence?"

John thought a little, carefully forming his sentence before speaking. "I knew it'd be dangerous, and I knew he needed someone to watch his back."

"What were you planning to do? Keep running for an unknown amount of time?"

"We were planning on waiting until the country calmed down and wasn't looking for us as much anymore so we could gather the evidence needed to prove his innocence."

"And you did in the end in Meiringen?"

"They caught up to us there for the third time and there wasn't another way out then. So he decided to simply prove it to them instead and get them to stop pointing the gun at him."

"The last time you were here you told the court that Sherlock Holmes admitted to you he was a fraud."

"False, I told you that he lied to me by saying he was one."

"How do you know he was lying?"

"Do I need to show you the transcript from his deductions two weeks back?"

"No, you don't," he said clearly irritated.

"Didn't you say the deduction was spot on?"

"Yes, but-"

"Well that's how I know he isn't one. Besides if he was a fraud, I don't think those criminals would've hated him so much and broken his wrist with a hammer."

Sherlock's eyes flashed over to his left arm, which was fresh out of the cast. He smiled, realizing how it hadn't hurt him since they were in Meiringen.

"Could it be that they hammered him because their boss had betrayed them?"

"A lot of things could be, but that in no way makes them true."

"And what makes you so sure that Sherlock Holmes isn't a fraud, when so much evidence in fact stands against him?"

"What makes you so sure of his guilt? After all, you aren't the man who lived with him for one and a half years, who mourned him for double that time, who studied his file for six months and who ran off with him for a week!" He turned his head to the press and gave them a threatening look.

"And that last thing is _not_ going on file!" A journalist looked up and quickly crossed through something in fear. His look softened and he turned his head back to the lawyer who he really just didn't like.

"So if I've done all those things, wouldn't you think I would be the first to know if Sherlock Holmes," he turned his head to face his friend who was sitting at the desk in front of him and smiled, "was in fact a fraud?"

The lawyer stared at him, defeated at his own game and looked down.

"No further questions."

"I presumed so."

_One Week Later_

SHERLOCK HOLMES INNOCENT AFTER ALL!

Sherlock Holmes, the man who faked his death, supposedly is a criminal mastermind, broke out of jail single-handedly and managed to escape the entire world it would seem for ten days has proven his innocence after all. Just yesterday he was judged not guilty after having negotiated a second trial. He...

John didn't need to read anymore. Just that one paragraph sufficed to make him smile. He placed the newspaper on the table and reached for the cup of tea that had been on the table for a while now. He was so relieved that it was all finally over that he didn't even notice how cold the tea actually was. John sighed as he leaned back on the sofa of the living room of 221B Baker Street just when Sherlock walked in with his violin in his left hand and his bow in his right. He walked over to the window and stared down at the busy streets of London while tuning the beautiful instrument. He closed his eyes and gracefully placed the violin under his chin, carefully leading the bow to the strings. The minute the first note played he dove into a different world, a world that purely consisted of his thoughts.

Sherlock smiled as he felt new energy come to him as he played. That night had been his best sleep in the year since he'd returned from the shadows of death, he was sure of that. Of course he'd been sleeping in his own bed in 221B since he returned there on the 2nd of May 2016 but it had never felt quite right since the day they told him he was free.

John smiled at the beautiful melody coming from Sherlock's instrument and closed his eyes in delight as well. He was at such peace that he only noticed that Sherlock had stopped playing when he spoke:

"John, you couldn't have been more wrong."

John looked up in surprised.

"What? About what?" Sherlock turned around and made his blue dressing gown twirl with him and paced over to John, still holding his bow and violin. He pointed at the newspaper John had been reading moments ago with the violin bow and smiled. John stared down at it questioningly, still not understanding Sherlock's point.

"Fourth tabloid big-bang," was all Sherlock explained.

"_Oh_..." John said, finally getting it.

"Speaking of which," the blond man said while standing up to bring the mug to the kitchen, "You've been getting tons of cases in the past twenty-four hours."

Sherlock smile widened in anticipation.

"We better get to work then."

"Wait," John said after returning from the kitchen. "There's one more thing first."

He walked over to his laptop and opened the blog:

29th July 2016

**Back to Normal**

So, in case you didn't hear the news yet, Sherlock Holmes is no longer guilty of those crimes. Not just that, he escaped prison and ran away from his own country until they finally admitted he was right. I knew it all along. I've always believed in him. So if anyone's interested in giving us a case, just contact Sherlock at .uk and he'll, well we'll be glad to help. Again, thanks to everyone who was supportive of this whole thing for the past year. And to the others: I told you so.

When John hit POST and turned his head back to face Sherlock, he saw that Sherlock was deeply distracted by his new notebook (this one was a sleek black and it had a ribbon to mark which page he was at). John didn't think he'd ever stop carrying a small notebook around now and he remembered the thoughts he'd had about Sherlock, the artist, but he dismissed them now. Sure, those sketches he made were wonderful, but the thought of adding paint to a house, which already had body parts lying around, was simply disgusting.

Sherlock kept the grey notebook on his commode in his bedroom. A couple times already, John had caught him staring at the drawings he'd made. Sherlock always said that he hated his drawings, but John believed that secretly he loved them as well. John smiled as he closed his laptop and sat back down on the sofa and let out a tired, happy sigh.


	28. Epilogue

_Three Months Later_

"Okay, John. It'll all be fine. Just do just as I explained to you and it'll be all right."

John swallowed.

"Are you absolutely sure about this?"

"Positive." Sherlock's lips curled into a smile.

"Okay..." John took a deep breath and went through the whole process. Sherlock believed in him, so this would all work out fine, right?

Carefully he put his hand on the key stuck into the ignition, turned it so the car started making that by now familiar rumbling noise and gingerly placed his hands on the steering wheel.

"If you can do this, John, you're fit for the license. You've already managed the hardest part," Sherlock explained. John nodded. As if he didn't know that already!

Once the whole trial thing was over, he had decided that not being able to drive was a clear hole in his abilities. Also, the idea of having to do something like what had happened in Amsterdam again just scared him. After getting the learner's permit, Sherlock had insisted on being his instructor. Not that John would've had it any other way. Sherlock was after all, the person who had instructed him on how to drive from scratch.

Slowly, John set the car to reverse, looked back and carefully pressed the gas pedal. The car started sluggishly moving backwards and John tried to go as far as possible without touching the garbage can they had set there.

Too late. The tip of the car hit the can and it made a loud banging noise. John closed his eyes as the bin wobbled about the road making the most unpleasant of rackets.

"Dammit," whispered John as he turned his head back to the front.

"It's still standing, still counts," Sherlock said reassuringly while placing a hand on the smaller man's shoulder. John looked back in surprise and found that the can had in fact only been pushed back a little and hadn't been tipped over.

With new courage John turned back around and switched the car to forwards. This time with a bit more force, he pressed the gas pedal after having turned the wheel already a bit. The car started to head towards the road and John almost forgot to stop it again. He hit the brakes and the car stopped with a screech. The red car they were in lightly touched the blue one (coincidently the same model as the Mercedes in the Netherlands) but didn't scratch it.

"Good, that's very good," Sherlock encouraged his friend.

"Stop patronizing me!" John yelled in frustration. Sherlock lifted his eyebrows and fell silent.

He took a deep breath and focused on the problem for a moment. John switched the car back to reverse and kept turning the wheel to the right as he started the car again. When the car was finally parallel to the road, John let out a sigh and fell back in his seat.

"There! Done!"

"Let's see, shall we?"

The two men unfastened their seatbelts and stepped out of the car. John nervously stood next the driver's seat while Sherlock carefully examined the car with a critical eye. He bent over to see how straight the wheels really were, he checked the blue Mercedes and the bin for any dents, and John knew very well that Sherlock would not miss any. He walked back to his friend with a very serious looking face. John was sure he was going to get the hardest critique ever now, but that was sort of obvious with the great Sherlock Holmes as your driving instructor, maybe he shouldn't have let him be it...

Sherlock's expression softened and he smiled at him.

"John, you've just mastered parallel parking."

"Wait what?"

"You successfully parked and unparked the car."

"Really? And is unparking even a word?"

"That's not the point, John!" John laughed at that and soon Sherlock joined in as well.

"And I know just how to celebrate it," John said with a mischievous grin. Sherlock looked at him questioningly as John ducked in front of the car and then passed him to get into the driver's seat. He closed the door and buckled his seat belt on. After turning the key he stared at Sherlock who did still not understand what he was up to.

"Well, get in!"

"Oh." Sherlock opened the door and got in, quickly fastening his seatbelt as well.

"What are we doing?" he asked confused, turning his head back to John. John still had that playful grin on his face.

"Getting out of old habits." He hit the gas pedal and they drove off on the abandoned London road. After a couple feet the whole car rolled over something and made a sort of jump. John stopped the car and ran out staring at the ground. Sherlock slowly stepped out with furrowed eyebrows and looked for what John was looking at one the pavement. Suddenly he understood what it was and took it from the ground.

In his hand was the cigarette box, pierced through by a bullet and flattened by a car. There still were three cigarettes and the lighter in it, but opening the peace of aluminium road kill would be quite a challenge.

Maybe John had gone a notch too far. He knew it. He wasn't entitled to do that, he shouldn't have. He already confiscated Sherlock's property, and now he destroyed it as well. But the child in him simply hadn't been able to resist it and he was ready for any tantrum Sherlock would throw at him. John pressed his lips together, waiting for Sherlock's reaction in anticipation.

Sherlock stared down at the box, millions of memories surrounding that box surfacing. The two most recent, Amsterdam and Paris, were definitely the strongest too. He had mixed feelings about this box and didn't quite know what to say. On the one hand, John had simply done it so he definitely would stop, on the other however, he'd just completely flattened an object that for him was almost sacred for saving his best friend.

Suddenly the absurdness of the entire situation occurred to him. They'd just driven over his cigarette box. John had purposely rolled the car over an aluminium box, containing cigarettes and a lighter, which had already been partly destroyed by a bullet. In some ways, well actually in every way, it was completely hilarious and Sherlock started laughing so hard he couldn't even stop anymore. John raised his eyebrows at his hysterical friend, wondering if he was just somehow acting the entire thing out. Instead, Sherlock just kept laughing, tears even escaping his eyes. The humour of the situation occurred to him as well and soon the two of them were both laughing harder than they ever had before. A man passing by who happened to be the owner of the Mercedes wanted to enter his car but just ended up staring at the two middle-aged, laughing men for god knows how long with a confused face. John and Sherlock fell into each other's arms and continued with their hysteria for a while until they finally took a deep breath and got back into the car. The man just kept staring as they drove off, wondering what the hell he'd just seen.

_**Author's Note:**_

_**Okay, if you actually read the whole thing: I love you! If you just scrolled down to the bottom: Why are you reading the author's note of a story you haven't read? Anyways, now that you're finished how about a review? Please? I'll be your best friend?! Any constructive criticism is very welcome :D **_

_**I was originally inspired for this story when I got on update from a fanfiction I'd given up on reading in December. It's a Post-Reichenbach that just keeps going on and on and doesn't seem to want to stop. However, when I got the update, I remembered that the trial after Sherlock's return featured in it. In that fanficition though, Sherlock was found not guilty right away, so suddenly the idea came into my head: What if Sherlock was found not guilty after he returned? **_

_**Over the course of that evening the rough outline of this fic took its form. I decided that there had to be a certain moment of hopelessness for Sherlock in prison, then meeting his foes there and teaming up with them to get out. I wanted to make a prison break out, that was sure.**_

"_**Then what?" I wondered. I based the idea of fleeing through all of Europe on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's The Final Problem but added my personal touch to it: Have you guessed it yet?**_

_**Every hotel that Sherlock and John stayed at, or even just mentioned (Paris and Berlin) were hotels that I stayed at myself :P Also, the hike Courmayeur-La Fouly is a hike I did (I did the whole TMB actually! God I regret it -.-), only the other way around and over the course of three days (and during the day)! No, I did not stay at that chapel in Meiringen, but it does exist and happens to be the place were the Sherlock Holmes Museum of Meiringen is. That funicular exists too by the way, actually most things clearly mentioned here exist. **_

_**At some point I decided I wanted to have a car chase. Then I remembered from the audio-commentary of Sherlock, that Martin Freeman in fact can't drive, ergo John can't drive. When this occurred to me I simply couldn't resist writing that left-side/right-side of the car mistake.**_

_**I also let other things inspire me just for tiny parts. Can you figure any out? ;D**_

_**Please note that I have no idea about court stuff so that part might not be very accurate and I obviously don't know what the inside of Pentonville is like but it is possible that it'll look like that in three years, right? ;)**_

_**Anyways, thank you so much for reading the entire story (and this entire author's note) and again I would appreciate a review so much! And once again I need to thank my mum for doing all the editing she is so amazing for that 3**_

_**Have a good day! :D **_

_**PS: **__** Sorry for this long author's note! :S**_


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